


A Brother's Bond

by hazeltea (madlovescience)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 44,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/pseuds/hazeltea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock would have to be desperate to ask for his brother's help.</p><p>Sherlock’s death is the impetus for his reluctant reconciliation with Mycroft, as he is forced to depend on his brother for his continued survival and the safety of the man he loves. John Watson finds that he has fallen in love with his flatmate, post-mortem. When Sherlock returns, the detective and doctor find themselves in the odd position of avenging an enemy. </p><p>Takes place between season 2 and 3, so , AU for events after season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  Seven year old Mycroft Holmes didn’t need to be as perceptive of a child as he was to know that something was very wrong. Mummy was often ill, of course, and he was used to her sporadic absence as she nursed one of her headaches. The bottle of pills, (which he must never, ever touch) that resided on her dresser was once a looming presence in her bedroom. It had troubled Mycroft at first, but with the passage of months, became almost invisible; and remained just barely out of his thoughts until the times when she retreated and closed the door behind her. Today, however, something was very, very wrong indeed. Mummy was crying, and she never cried. Not even a little bit, not even when her headaches were at their worst. Something terrible had happened, he was sure of it. Mummy was frightened.

 Mycroft hung behind in the doorway, unsure of how to approach the situation. He was about to retreat when Mummy noticed him, and cleared her throat, resuming a pleasant enough mask. She reached out her arms, and Mycroft went to her, letting her embrace him. He hugged her as hard as he could manage, unable to question her. After a long while, she pulled back slightly. She wasn’t crying anymore, but the worry was still in her eyes.

  
  “Mummy, what’s wrong?” he finally managed, looking critically into her eyes.

  She cleared her throat, and forced a smile. “Nothing’s wrong, love.” she replied. “In fact, I’ve got good news for you. You’re going to have a little brother soon. Or a little sister. I think it will be a brother, though.” She placed his hand over her belly. “Isn’t that nice? I think that you’ll be a wonderful big brother, don’t you?” Of all of the things that she could have said, this was something that Mycroft had not anticipated.

  “Mycroft.” Her voice broke, just a bit, and she swallowed hard. “I’m going to need your help from now on.”  
Not knowing exactly what she meant, Mycroft nodded sternly; because Mummy mustn’t cry.  
\--

  Sherlock, the baby, had been born too soon, and because of this, he and Mummy stayed in hospital for what felt like an eternity. Mycroft had gazed with distaste at the tiny creature, looking like an alien with his huge head and miniscule, bony limbs, covered in veins, plastic tubes, and tape. Now that Sherlock was healthy enough to come home, Mummy had spent all of her time hovering about the bassinette, fussing over his smallest whimper, and ignoring everything else. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, he was sick of it all. The ugly little creature did nothing, in Mycroft’s opinion, to warrant praise and presents.

  
  Resenting the peaceful expression on his sleeping brother’s face, Mycroft pulled the baby from the bassinette. “Wake up. All you ever do is laze about and whine.” Sherlock wrinkled his red face, and squinted at him. He yawned, and, maddeningly, closed his eyes again.

  Everything had been much better before he’d come along, Mycroft reflected. A dull anger passed over him. How he’d like to throw his brother! It would be easy to drop him, in fact. He could say it was an accident. He could… do something worse than that. The brat deserved something rotten.

  
  The shuffle of footsteps roused him from his jealous thoughts. “Why, Mycroft! You’re a proper big brother now, aren’t you.”

  
 “Father!” Mycroft yelped, in surprise and delight. He hadn’t seen his father in so long! He’d been away, In Her Majesty’s Service, as he understood, since well before the baby had come.

  Father knelt, and scooped him and the baby into his arms. “I can’t stay for long.” He murmured into Mycroft’s hair. “I’m so sorry.” He ran a finger across Sherlock’s cheek, and kissed Mycroft’s temple. “You’re the man of the house while I’m gone, remember. Take care of your Mummy and the baby. He’s your responsibility, you know.”

  
  Mycroft nodded, and, oddly feeling quite different than he had a moment ago, clutched the sleeping bundle tight.

\--

  Other children didn’t seem to like Sherlock. That wasn’t surprising, Mycroft thought, because other children were idiots. After all, his classmates hadn’t liked him much, either. Sherlock had started to talk at a young age, and since he had, had spoken with the clarity and maturity of a young adult. Mycroft spent much of his time with Sherlock, playing games, teaching him everything he could think of, and, over time, developing a secret language which only they could understand.

  
  He loved Sherlock more than anyone in the world, except, perhaps, Mummy; and yet his brother had the ability to make him angrier than anyone, or anything else could. Sherlock was stubborn, often bad tempered, and took stupid risks even after Mycroft had specifically forbade him to do something. It was Mycroft that bandaged skinned knees, cleaned up messes, and took the hysterical scolding from Mummy when Sherlock had broken his arm.

  It was a wrench to leave Sherlock for university, but there was nothing to be done about it. Life had obligations, after all, and Mycroft’s was to his family and, he hoped someday, to Her Majesty, like his father. Still, who would look after Sherlock?

  
  It was while he was at Oxford that Sherlock had first taken the drugs. Mycroft, infuriated, left in the midst of the term to drive the eighty-six miles home to punch Sherlock in the jaw.

 

  Sherlock claimed that he was ‘bored’. Mycroft’s stomach knotted in sickly worry. He extracted a promise from Sherlock, along with the remainder of his stash, and uneasily resumed his life apart from his brother.  
\--  
  Mycroft had never heard what had happened between his brother and Victor Trevor directly from Sherlock, and this hurt him more than he was willing to admit; even to himself. That Sherlock should have a close friend was unusual, but what was astonishing was the effect that the rift between them had taken on his brother. Sherlock wasn’t himself when he came home that Christmas. He seemed confused, forlorn, and perhaps a bit guilty.

  “You’re graduating this year.” Mycroft observed, over a mouthful of mince pie. “Why don’t you come and stay with me? I know that I can find you a rewarding position.”

  Sherlock pushed away his plate and scowled. “No.”

  
  “Don’t be stubborn, Sherlock. You need to join the real world sometime.”

  
  “I’m not going to live a dull life like yours.” He grumbled.

  
  “The world has enough sulking poet types, dear brother. You should put your brain to work on something important.”

  
  “I am. I’m going to be a detective.” Sherlock’s tone was that defiant one he had used since childhood. Mycroft would have laughed if he didn’t know the genuineness of that tone.

  
  “The police are idiots. You’re wasting your time.” Mycroft chided.

  
  “I never said anything about the police, now did I?” Sherlock retorted.

  
  Sherlock’s first year alone in London caused Mycroft to take up cigarettes and sleeping pills.  
\--

 John Watson was absolutely ordinary. Mycroft watched Sherlock in confusion. What was it, exactly, that caused his brother’s obvious attraction? What made him puff up his feathers like a pleased peacock, showing off more than usual, (even for Sherlock), for this man? Sherlock was the one pressing for John to live with him, work with him, even- unheard of!

 

 Dr. Watson would have to be interrogated; if he did not pass inspection, then Mycroft would simply ensure that he was removed from Sherlock’s life forever.

 With one meeting, John Watson had won his approval and his blessing; although he was certain that the thought hadn’t occurred to Sherlock yet. His feelings about Victor Trevor, Mycroft knew, had been realized too late. Sherlock would not realize his obvious change in behavior until John Watson was such an integral fact of his existence that it would no longer be difficult for him to accept.

 

 He worried about Sherlock less, and about John more. Somehow, the burden of his worry seemed less for being spread over two, and not one.  
\---

 Mycroft had begged a sabbatical, which was only granted, he knew, out of pity. He found that he could no longer look his colleagues in the eye; could not even bring himself to face the Diogenes Club. He could hear, _feel_ the accusations cut through the customary silence.

  _Murderer._

  _Traitor._

  _Fool._

 His only redemption, as he saw it, was in John Watson; John Watson, who despised him; hated him with such quiet fury that caused him to slink away in shame from his own brother’s funeral. And so, Mycroft watched- and trailed- and protected his brother’s only friend with all of the staff and technology at his disposal.  
\--

 The lock of Mycroft’s study had been tampered with. There, a minuscule scrape on the polished brass, there, the barrel of the deadbolt a millimeter out of line. He drew his gun and crossed the threshold.

The dark shape of Sherlock Holmes rose from the sofa, and crossed the darkened room. Mycroft lowered his gun, and waited for his brother to speak.

 “Mycroft. I- I need your help.”

 Mycroft closed his eyes, and took a deep, shaking breath before realizing that he had extended his hands towards his brother.  
After a long moment, Sherlock returned the embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

 Mycroft had not hugged his brother in years, and the sharpness of his ribcage beneath his fingers made him cringe. Of course Sherlock hadn’t been eating well; he barely consumed a bite during his cases; and this was the longest period of uninterrupted danger that Sherlock had ever endured. Sherlock’s eyes were sharp and troubled, with dark circles beneath. His skin was ashen, but his eyes were not bloodshot nor dilated, his body stiff from stress, but not shaking nor fidgeting. The stench of too many cigarettes hung about him, but there was no sign Mycroft could detect that proved that Sherlock had been taking anything stronger. “Anything, dear brother, anything at all. I will fix it.” Mycroft lapsed into French, the language they had used between them as children, smug in the fact that the people they encountered outside of Mummy’s extended family could not understand them. Despite years of stubborn resentment, Sherlock tightened his grip on Mycroft’s coat, and for one odd, blissful moment, Mycroft had his baby brother back. Any anger that he might have felt for Sherlock’s deception had melted in that instant.

 “Anything.” he whispered. “I will fix it, brother dear, I will not let them harm you, never, ever hurt my little brother.”

 “John.” Sherlock croaked, his voice thick and weary against Mycroft’s throat.

  “He is already under my protection and constant surveillance, despite his wishes.” Mycroft assured him.

  “Of course.” Sherlock was the one to break the embrace, and shift into English. Mycroft sighed, regretting the passing of the moment. “It has been five weeks, Sherlock. You have barely eaten or slept. You are clean shaven, but have not had a proper bath in three days. Clearly you have several safe havens, yet you sense, rightly so, that none of them are safe for long. I insist that you take advantage of my hospitality long enough to regain your strength.” Mycroft took Sherlock by the hand and led him through the study, and down an oak paneled hallway. “The bath is through there. When you are finished, you will find clean clothing. Then, you will join me for a meal.” Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft bit his lip. _Too complacent, too exhausted_ , he reflected as he watched his brother go. _There is no fight in him._

  Worried, Mycroft settled into an armchair to wait. One text and thirty minutes later, his personal chef had sent up two plates of medium rare steak, new potatoes in cream sauce, and grilled asparagus, accompanied by an aged bottle of merlot which Mycroft had been saving for a special occasion which never occurred. Ten minutes later, Sherlock emerged, his posture and the faint pink tinge to his skin indicating that he had taken advantage of the suite’s hot tub. Sherlock collapsed into the chair opposite his brother and applied himself to the contents of his plate, like a starving man, which, Mycroft realized, he very nearly was. When the plate was almost clean, Sherlock’s chewing began to slow, and he paused to refill his glass before meeting Mycroft’s gaze.

 “I killed a man yesterday, in Paris. I’ve never done that before.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, a slight frown at the edge of his lips.

 “I had anticipated something of the sort.” Mycroft answered.

 A bark of sharp laughter came from Sherlock’s throat. “There are at least two more I will need to eliminate. There are ten other loose ends I may have to snip, if that fails to bring his web down. What does that make me, brother?”

 “Hunted.” Mycroft replied, tersely. “Do not think that the usual rules apply to your situation, Sherlock.”

 Sherlock drained his glass, and reached for the bottle. “You say that because you love me.” He murmured. “Don’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes, in the way that your jaw is set. You don’t approve, but you know that it is necessary. You have killed before. You just don’t talk about it. You’re ashamed that you’ve done it. That’s why I never wanted to work with your lot, you know. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite.” Mycroft bristled, but he held his tongue. Now was not the time for this.

 “I will help you. Tomorrow, you will tell me all that you know, and I will see to some of these… loose ends.” _Yes, let the blood be on my hands, not his. He’s never learned how to accept it._

  Sherlock looked down at his bare feet, his humiliation apparent. Mycroft knew that he would never call on him in this way unless he was desperate. If he had only asked for his help earlier, he wouldn’t have had to die. It could have all been prevented, Mycroft was certain. This was about something more, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock confirmed his thoughts. “Tell me that John is safe.” Sherlock had finished the bottle, and reached for a second which the staff was thoughtful enough to include.

 “You know that he is safe, Sherlock. I have promised you as much.”

 “Tell me… tell me about John.”

 “John has left Baker street for a bedsit. Don’t look at me that way, Sherlock, I have paid the rent for the next year, should he decide to return. He has returned to work at a clinic, and has resumed appointments with his therapist.”

  “These are vague details.” Sherlock snapped.

 Irritation rose in Mycroft’s chest. “He visits your grave every Sunday morning. He leaves you a single red rose each time, and weeps as he presses his lips to the stone. Is that what you want to hear?”

 Sherlock snarled. “I did not ask for sarcasm, Mycroft.”

 “Nor are you getting it from me.” Mycroft replied, leaning back in his seat with a small smirk of triumph at Sherlock’s stricken look.

 “John.” Sherlock’s voice was small and lost, as though he were his former child self, and Mycroft instantly regretted the cruel swipe.

 “I will let you see John.” Mycroft rose, and motioned for Sherlock to follow. Mycroft pushed back a brass panel, and entered a code on the buttons beneath. Sliding the heavy oak aside, he revealed a second office, containing a multitude of small security screens. A camera revealed the sleeping form of John Watson, curled uncomfortably on a thin, threadbare mattress.

 Sherlock touched the screen. “You believe, rightly so, that caring is a disadvantage.” He mused. “My concern will make me unreasonable. It will make me emotional. It will make me susceptible to a bullet. Yet, you encourage me. You watch over him. You show me this. Why?”

 “Your doctor is a good influence.” Mycroft answered. “You will not resort to your addictions when you fear his disapproval. You will eat and sleep when he presses you. He has put his life on the line for yours. I approve of your soldier. I also wish… to reconcile. I deeply regret what I have done, Sherlock.”

 “I see.” Sherlock’s eyes did not move from John’s sleeping form. “Do you think that I am weak, Mycroft?” His hand tightened on the console as John twitched, caught in the throes of a nightmare. Sweat broke out upon his skin, his brows knotted in pain. He screamed, screamed bloody murder, before his words became coherent. He screamed for Sherlock. Sherlock flicked his eyes to his brother. “I know that I am weak, Mycroft. “ He turned from the monitor, unable to watch. “I know what I have done to him. I know that I will kill again. I know that I am terrified that I will not be quick enough, that he will be dead when I return, or will have moved on to a better life, a safer, saner life- without me. I fear that he will hate me. I know that I am weak because I have come to you and begged… “

 “You are drunk.” Mycroft interrupted. “And too tired to think clearly. Tomorrow, we shall discuss this, but now, you will sleep.” Mycroft remembered the times when Sherlock had stubbornly snuck out of bed, only to collapse wherever fatigue had gotten the better of him. It had been Mycroft who carried the sleeping boy to his bed, and although he was no longer able to carry him, a certain comfort and nostalgia settled upon him as he led his brother to a guest bed and pulled back the covers. Sherlock made a small sound of protest as he was tucked in. Mycroft pulled the sheets from the bottom of the bed, letting Sherlock’s feet free, and his brother quickly fell into a deep sleep. He stayed by the bedside for a few moments longer, enjoying the peace; knowing that coordinating a plan with a surly, hung over Sherlock in the morning would be a battle onto itself.


	3. Chapter 3

The worst part about the hunt for Moriarty’s men, Sherlock finds, is the waiting. It was bad enough when he was fleeing for his life, but now, in the relative safety of Mycroft’s home, it is agony. There are only two people aside from Mycroft who know of his existence in the household: a young, official sort;  too enthralled with Mycroft and too focused on his steady climb up the government ladder to ask questions; and the efficient woman who was known to John as “Anthea.”  He does not see them often. There are two, possibly three other servants in the household, but they are never seen, nor do they see him. Sherlock is grateful for the trust that he has in his brother, because it means that he does not need to waste his mental resources on them.

 Mycroft’s home is a fortress trimmed with superficial, semi public layers. On the second day, Sherlock is given the tour, and the codes to all but two areas. In another time, Sherlock would have broken the forbidden codes to infuriate Mycroft, to prove his superiority. Now, he lacks the desire, and plans his activities around the resources at hand.

 One of the best distractions was the small shooting range in the sub basement. Sherlock knew how to handle a gun, but he was nowhere near as proficient as John, not nearly efficient enough to snipe an experienced assassin. He had gotten lucky in Paris, he knew. The killer had grown lazy, complacent. He had been drinking. It had been dark. Sherlock’s attack was cowardly, a bullet to the back of the head at close range. The man hadn’t suffered; and Sherlock was torn between being relieved to have done a clean job, and resentment that the man who would have heartlessly murdered a woman as sweet and gentle as Mrs. Hudson should not have been taught a long, grueling lesson in respect.

  He was dwelling on this as he stood, gun in hand, glaring at the paper target before him, when he was roused by the clicking of the inner door opening. Mycroft took his place beside him, calmly donning a pair of safety goggles before taking a gun from the rack. He aimed, and Sherlock startled inwardly as the far target suffered a clean kill shot through its eye.

 “Show off.” He managed, at last. How had he underestimated his brother? It wasn’t like him to do that. Sherlock felt a surge of the increasingly familiar queasy feeling that accompanied the thought that he had become hopelessly out of touch with reality, enough to make his deductions faulty, which made everything that he was faulty.

 “It is merely practice, brother mine.” Mycroft replied, repeating the shot. Sherlock took in the sight, analyzing his posture, his angle, his expression. He wished that he’d studied John when he’d had the chance, properly studied his technique; but then again, he had only seen John shoot when they were on a case, when he had more pressing matters to consider.  Sherlock mimicked Mycroft’s stance, angled his gun (allowing for the slight difference in height), and shot another round. He remained after Mycroft left, shooting dozens of bullets into the target. Doing this without John was agony. If John were there to listen to him, he would have been able to find his enemies sooner. He would be sure of himself, with John’s compliments. Briefly, he considered confiding in Mycroft, but that was not on. Mycroft would make him feel rotten, the very opposite of clever, without even meaning to. Sherlock hissed under his breath, and locked away the gun.

 That evening, over an extravagant plate of lobster tails and a salad made of plants that were mostly weeds according to Sherlock’s botany books, Mycroft proved that he was able to make Sherlock feel helpless and useless anyway. “Sherlock,” he began, breaking one of the silent lulls in their meal, “I must ask you a rather delicate question, brother.”

 Sherlock didn’t respond, but cast Mycroft a sharp look, not liking the familiar, prying tone.

 “It is quite obvious that you love John Watson.” he began. “I have wondered, though, if you are, as they say, ‘in’ love with the doctor.” Mycroft frowned slightly, for this was a difficult question to raise.

 “John isn’t… I don’t have time for that kind of nonsense.” Sherlock stabbed at a dandelion.

 “That isn’t what I asked.” Mycroft replied, aware that he was crossing a line, brazenly continuing to see how far he would get.

  “Why does it matter?” Sherlock snapped.

 “Because my little brother’s happiness is important to me.” Mycroft admitted, unaware that what he took to be a sincere tone of voice and a pleasant expression seemed a mocking visage on a man who smiled so infrequently.

 “You can have my desert.” Sherlock grumbled, pushing his chair from the table. Mycroft didn’t follow.

  Sherlock’s feet seemed to have a mind of their own, for he had meant to head to his borrowed bedroom. Instead, he found himself in the study, facing the hidden panel of the surveillance room. Almost against his will, he punched in the code, and hesitantly sat on the edge of the desk, pointedly turning his back to the monitors that he knew depicted John’s routine. His eyes cast over the hundreds of flickering screens, until a familiar face caught his gaze. Lestrade. He was walking through a dismal drizzle, away from the tube station. He carried a bag of takeaway. Sherlock peered at the bag, straining with the weight of awkward white and red boxes. Judging by the path Lestrade had taken, it was from what they used to call the ‘red room’; a Chinese restaurant with no sign declaring a name, a literal hole in the wall between two other eateries in a  decrepit building that looked set to crumble. The interior was dark, and painted a garish scarlet, and Sherlock would never have eaten there if John and Lestrade hadn’t both insisted on the singular quality of the food. Lestrade would have had to go out of his way to pick it up. Sherlock concluded that Lestrade must have had a very bad day. In a selfish way, he was glad that he wasn’t the only one.

  The surveillance ended at Lestrade’s front door. Sherlock sighed, wishing that he could follow him inside, tell him everything that bloody Mycroft wouldn’t understand. He drummed his fingers on the console for several minutes before giving in. He turned, and leaned forward to watch for John.  Minutes passed, and John did not appear. Sherlock bristled with annoyance. How was Mycroft supposed to be doing his job if he couldn’t see John with his wretched cameras? His anger seethed until he saw a flicker of movement at the edge of the screen. John.

  John dropped his damp bag at the door, and locked it behind him. He sunk into a battered chair, and sighed into his hands. Sherlock watched expectantly. After a long moment, he rose, and methodically made a cup of tea on a hotplate. He opened his laptop, and spent a few minutes reading before snapping it closed. He kicked off his shoes and leaned back on the shabby bed, and was soon asleep.

   Sherlock stared into the screen, at John, beyond John until he wasn’t actually focusing on anything. Why would Mycroft bring this up now, when he was caged in and frustrated? Well, because it was what Mycroft did, the sort of thing he’d always done. Mycroft scolded him for caring, and scolded him for not caring, and meddled until Sherlock had no choice but to think about what he’d said, really think, and that he should have to answer Mycroft’s question was the frozen limit. Mycroft had a way of making his questions Sherlock’s own, and Sherlock sighed, thinking of John.

 Of course he loved John. He missed John like the ache of a phantom limb. ‘In’ love? Did Sherlock know how to love in that way? Had he ever felt anything with which he could reference his turbulent thoughts against? All that he knew was that he missed John, so sorely it crippled him, and only Mycroft’s help and charity had kept him going.  He knew that John was what he wanted, John at his side, always. John wasn’t interested, he was straight, as he’d said dozens of times, and so Sherlock had never seen the sense of thinking of their friendship in that way. Still, Sherlock felt a small surge of pride whenever people assumed that they were together, and never corrected them. They thought that John was his, his alone, they all thought that. John.

  Sherlock was not aware of how much time had passed, until the sound of John’s voice roused him. “Hey, Sherlock.” John was approaching his grave, his crutch gripped tightly in one hand, the single rose Mycroft had mentioned in his other. Groaning, John sunk down to the damp ground, not caring that it stained the knees of his trousers. He placed the flower down, and ran his hand along the wet stone, before frowning, and pulling a tissue from his pocket which he used to carefully clean the grooves of Sherlock’s name from grime.

 “I know how much you hate it when I repeat things.” He began. “It’s just, well. I miss you. So much. You know that, I’m sorry. God help me, Sherlock. God help me.” John’s voice cracked, and Sherlock felt his throat tighten. “God help me. Sherlock, dear… God help me.” After a moment, John cleared his throat, and sighed. He traced a finger over the gold letters, and lightly touched his lips to them. “You’ll help me up, won’t you?” he asked, as he leaned on the stone, struggling to get onto his feet. “Sorry, mate. Well. Sherlock.” He looked as though he was going to say something more, but swallowed it back. He stiffened, saluted the grave, and hobbled away.

 Sherlock was suddenly aware of the fact that he’d been holding his breath, and that his eyelashes were wet. He was aware of the crick in his neck and the ache in his chest. “Wait for me, John.” He managed.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 Detective Inspector Lestrade was being followed. His skin prickled, his stomach flipped; and he never ignored a gut feeling. Not even when his eyes told him that there was no one behind him. He quickened his pace, arbitrarily changing direction, towards a brightly lit main street. The bustle of people around him calmed his nerves enough for him to scold himself for being foolish. Was he afraid of a mugger when he carried a gun? Only… it felt as though it were something worse than a mugger waiting for him. Like he’d narrowly escaped walking blindfolded into a crack den. Overtired, that must be it. He wasn’t used to so much paperwork, hours on end under the hideous glare of fluorescent lights on a dated computer screen. Surely he was imagining things, and these bloody terrorists weren’t helping his imagination any. Overtired, yes, overexcited- except he could have sworn that that security camera was pointed directly at him.  Waiting for him. He shuddered, and hailed a cab rather than descend the steps of the tube station.

_**I was right about Geneva. He’s here. Took out 20k. Don’t waste your time on L in London. S**_

**_Not for much longer. Only in Geneva because I froze London assets. Come home M_ **

**_I’m coming home, he isn’t. S_ **

**_Don’t be cocky. Sending reinforcements. M_ **

Mycroft waited. Two minutes, twenty seconds. No snarling, sarcastic retort. _Oh, Sherlock. How utterly predictable._

**_John is safe. Focus. M_ **

 Silence achieved, Mycroft returned to his notes. There could be no possible way that Moriarty’s generals could know that Sherlock was alive. They had been so careful… and yet, he had evidence that at least one man among them had revived the mission. Mycroft had thwarted two attempts on DI Lestrade’s life, and yet, had never managed to pin the killer down for long enough to eliminate him. If nothing else, he had made the man’s mission a difficult one, cutting off monetary assets, heightening the city’s security with floodlights and increased policing with a series of carefully planted car bombs in controlled areas. Miraculously, the media marvels, without casualties.  London was itching, jumping with the suspicion of a terrorist on the loose; a rather difficult climate for an assassin.

 The worrisome thing, he reflected, was that there had not been any evidence of an attempt on John Watson’s life, when he was certain that there would be one, somewhere, and soon.

**_How are you today? Dinner? MH_ **

**_Honestly? Really, now. JW_ **

**_Yes, honestly. I worry, you know. MH_ **

**_Sod off, for the last time. JW_ **

**_And take the money back. It isn’t mine. JW_ **

**_He wanted it to be yours. MH_ **

**_Don’t you dare talk to me about him, or to anyone else for that matter. You gave up that right. JW_ **

 Mycroft sighed. He had done enough for the day.

\---

 Sherlock crawled along the grimy rooftop of the church, sliding up to position himself behind a jutting turret, and waited, pistol poised. A stray curl tickled his cheek, but he did not move. He knew his target’s routine, having trailed him for the last two weeks. In seven minutes, he would pass, and Sherlock would fire a calculated bullet through his skull. It was a long shot, but he had done it before in a controlled environment. He could do it, on a night with no wind. He would be one step closer to the end of this nightmare, one step closer to Baker Street. One step closer to his old life, to Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits, to walking the streets of London undisguised, to John.

 Seven minutes came and went. Sherlock stiffened, and turned, back pressed to the stone. The train had been on schedule, he had heard it come in. Had he missed his train? Or, more likely- was he already there? His eyes scanned the scene before him. Sherlock had chosen a nook which was a perfect place to snipe from, but if _he_ were the target, then he had only cornered himself. A moment passed, and he could hear the sound of footsteps approaching, and with them, the smell of cheap cigarette smoke _(Basics, menthol, how on earth could he stand them?)_ He had only seconds to escape, to get onto a flat surface where he could confront the man while maintaining his balance.  Sherlock scampered from the dip in the roof he had nested in, and carefully balanced himself along its edge. He could still make it around the parameter, he reasoned, and come up on the far side, taking the assassin by surprise, when the idiot had thought himself clever enough to outwit Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock smirked to himself, and began to navigate the ledge.

  He had gotten more than halfway around when the stone gave out under his left foot. He remembered a moment of panic that felt like a year as he scraped his fingernails along the slick slate, and, in desperation, threw as much of his weight as he could toward the balcony below. As the world went red, and then black around him, he wondered how far he had fallen.

****


	5. Chapter 5

 Sherlock dreamed of floating. Far off, muffled voices came and went, and then, nothing. His mind was perfectly still, and empty of thoughts for once. He did not think, and so he could not appreciate it.

 “Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Can you hear me? Wake up, hon. Come on.”

 There was a rush of cold air, and a roar of abstracted noise rushed over him, which ended in a persistent, irritating beeping. Never had he felt so groggy. Frustrated, and a bit panicked that he seemed incapable of even opening his eyes, he struggled to speak to the disembodied voice that he was damn well _trying_.

 “Deep breath, Sherlock. One more. Deep breath.”

 Sherlock moaned, and became aware of his body again.  A plastic mask fitted to his face was the source of the hissing noise and cold air. A thick, antiseptic smell filled his nostrils and hit the back of his throat. 

  “Can you take another breath for me?” The maddening woman beside him asked. Sherlock inhaled as deeply as he could, several times, and she seemed satisfied. “How do you feel?” Sherlock, who couldn’t feel much of anything, nodded.

  “All right, hon, you rest here a few minutes, and then it’s off to recovery. Nina will take your vitals again in a few minutes.”  He groaned as another woman in pale green scrubs arrived, and  attempted small talk as he was poked and prodded some more. At last at peace, he attempted to assess his condition. There were bandages on his head, on his midsection, on his foot. His right arm was in a cast. A glance at his wrist revealed further information. _S. Sigerson 06011976 A+ admit 10102012_ A second thin red band of plastic simply declared _ALLERGY_.

 The nurse pushed his bed from behind, and through wide double doors, down a freezing hallway, and into a small white room which contained a television set bolted to the ceiling, and Mycroft.

  “For someone who has planned a safe landing from a hospital roof and spent the better part of a year bragging about his precious Judo certificate, you are absolute rubbish at falling down.” Mycroft moved his flimsy chair closer to the hospital bed, and placed a hand on the rail.

  Sherlock frowned. “Sigerson?”

  “You never know who has access to the medical records, brother dear.”

 “But ‘Sherlock’ was inconspicuous?”

 “People are conditioned to respond to their own names. You’ve shown an increased sensitivity to anesthesia in the past. I wanted them to be able to wake you.”

 “Ah.” Sherlock frowned. “Is this date correct?” he asked, raising his arm to his brother.

 Mycroft nodded. “You had me worried. You have been in and out of consciousness for the past two months. Twice, you even got up and spoke nonsense to me. Today was, hopefully, your final surgery.”

 Sherlock made an attempt to climb out of the bed, but the lingering leaden feeling in his limbs and the tug of the IV in his hand stopped him.  

 “Don’t.” Mycroft warned.

 “We’ve lost too much time.” Sherlock groaned.

 “Sherlock, not only have you broken an arm, your toe, and fractured your ribs, you landed on your head. Your head, brother. Your brain. Take a moment to consider that.” Mycroft’s voice was flat, yet threatening. “I have never been more terrified in. My. Life. Now, you will rest, and obey the doctor’s orders, and _behave._ “

 “All right.” He managed. “Did he get away?”

 “Unfortunately, yes, but not for much longer. Your life took priority.”

 “Next time, don’t mother hen me, catch the killer.” Sherlock muttered.

 “If there is a next time, dear brother, remember that your signature is on a paper allowing me the right  to pull the plug.”

 “I never signed that.”

 “I never said that you did. Now, you must be famished. I’ll find something for you.” Mycroft pulled an extra blanket over him, and left the room.

 Sherlock’s mind was racing. Months, weeks wasted! Scorn turned then on himself. He had been an idiot, a common, overconfident fool. He had failed. He had failed Lestrade. He had failed John. Sherlock, who had not believed in a God for more years than he could remember, began to desperately pray for their safety. _Please, please, let them be alive. Let me see John. Please. I’ll do anything. I’m a rotten excuse for a person, but if you just please, PLEASE just let them-_

 “Sherlock.” Mycroft placed a tray beside on the nightstand, and fumbled with the swinging tray that fit across the bed. “No solid food until tomorrow.” He placed the plate before him. “Chicken broth, tomato juice, tea, sherbet. It will have to do.” Mycroft’s obvious distaste made Sherlock smirk. He sipped at the broth to appease his brother, and, finally finding himself extremely thirsty, drained the glass of tomato juice.

 “John is safe.” Mycroft said, after a moment. It was a mantra, the words that would keep Sherlock going.

  Relief flooded Sherlock’s chest, and he gazed at his brother, for once in shirtsleeves, vulnerable as he had once been. “My… I do love him, you know. I do.” Sherlock confessed. “It hurts.”

 “I know you do. It won’t be long, now, brother. I will fix it.” Mycroft stayed with him until he had sampled all of the cups, and pushed the tray away.


	6. Chapter 6

 Greg Lestrade had always enjoyed the holidays, and so he found it disappointing that instead of welcoming the Christmas carols in the shops and the garish window displays across London, he instead wondered why on earth it was necessary to start such nonsense at the end of October. He hoped that he’d embrace the spirit as the weeks went by, but he doubted it. He hadn’t felt much of anything at all, lately. He wouldn’t even see his girls this year. They would be with their mother, miles away, where he was no longer wanted. If only he could have felt wanted, needed at work, at least, it could all be bearable. For a moment, he considered going to the pub, but it was too likely that he’d run into associates, people who would want to know why-the-long-face and offer to buy-you-a-pint-mate, and having to articulate any of his troubles into words would somehow solidify them, and make them feel more real. He decided that an early night, early for his standards, at least, was in order instead.

 He fumbled with his keys, and pushed open the door to his flat. As he fumbled for the light switch, something struck the door behind him. Bullet, silencer, his mind automatically responded. He dove to the floor. Something crashed. Someone cried out. Scuffing. His eyes had begun to adjust to the dark. Two men, both armed, and one of them was on his side. Which one?

 The taller man got the upper hand. There was a sound of heavy flesh falling against the floor, and a gurgling scream that set his nerves on edge. “Now. Tell me about Sebastian Moran.” The velvet voice of the taller man growled to the whimpering body beneath him.

 Lestrade had had quite enough. He stood, aiming his own gun at the pair. “All right, you sonofabitch.” He barked. “Hands up. Now!”

 “Not now, Detective Inspector.” The man sounded calm, annoyed. Arrogant. Familiar, somehow. To Lestrade’s amazement, he found himself obeying, lowering his weapon. A long, slow, annoyed hiss emerged from the man’s throat. It sounded like it was meant to be an expletive. Lestrade found the light switch, and found himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes, and the body of a convicted felon bleeding out into his carpet. Mycroft’s lips twitched in annoyance, and he rose to his feet, wiping his bloody fingers on a handkerchief that looked as though it cost more than a month’s rent on Lestrade’s flat.

 “Well, there passes a golden opportunity.” Mycroft looked disdainfully down his nose at the corpse.  Lestrade balked, seeing the icy glare of disgust and annoyance, so similar to Sherlock’s eyes at a crime scene. It was like seeing a ghost.

 “This man was sent by Moriarty to murder you.” Mycroft produced his Blackberry from his coat pocket, and did not even regard him as he punched the keys. “There is a room at The Crowne Plaza reserved in your name. You may pick up your key at the front desk. When you return on Wednesday, it will be as though nothing has happened here tonight. And nothing has happened, has it, Detective Inspector?”  Mycroft met his eyes then.

 Lestrade found his voice, at last. “Look, I know you call the shots around Whitehall, but you can’t just … just… Ah, bloody hell. You can, can’t you.” Lestrade began to pace. Harboring a dead body was beginning to put him off of his train of thought. “I suppose I ought to thank you, Mr. Holmes.”  ‘Mr. Holmes’, as though he was a shop teacher. He was a dangerous, brilliant madman, one Lestrade had only met a handful of times before in person. He’d never felt the sheer force of his presence before, somehow.

 “You were dear to my baby brother.” Mycroft’s frigid tone warmed, slightly. “I consider the resolution of his work to be his dying wish. Please, Detective Inspector, leave me to tidy this mess. My humblest apologies. You are quite safe now.”

 Lestrade wandered onto the street in a daze. His apologies, for saving his life? Had Mycroft Holmes really been in his flat, elbow deep in blood, and waxing nostalgic only moments later? _Typical of a damn Holmes_ , he thought. _What monstrous breeding stock had the lot of them come from?_ Lestrade leaned against the wall of a neighboring building, and took several deep breaths, willing his pulse to stop hammering at his chest and his temples. He did his best to dismiss the tingle of excitement in his stomach as jittery nerves. _Good God, I’ve never seen anything like him._ _Bloody hell!_

 


	7. Chapter 7

  Mycroft was silent as his car pulled away from Baker Street. His PA placed her hand on his arm, her warm, dark eyes offering him an anchor to his own reality. He smiled gently at her in thanks, but was too saddened by his visit to fully forget it. He found himself worrying about Mrs. Hudson, who he had never quite regarded as elderly before today. “Both of my boys have gone, now.” She had managed through her tears, as though it were a sort of confession, as though she felt foolish for expressing her love. This wasn’t unusual behavior for anyone conversing with Mycroft, but she had never seemed conscious of it before. Mycroft had squelched his own guilt in lying to her, and his irritation at John for leaving her alone, by letting her hug him. Sherlock looked to her as a mother; which made sense, as she was everything that Mummy wasn’t.

 There had been a half hearted argument over the check he’d slipped her. “Merry Christmas.” He had insisted. Merry, indeed.

 When he returned, Sherlock was curled into Mycroft’s favorite chair, staring vacantly at the fire. A tin of gourmet chocolate biscuits, a Christmas gift from one of Mycroft’s associates in Germany, lay half eaten beside him. As far as he knew, it was all Sherlock had bothered to eat since he’d left that morning. His nails scratched at his arm absently, seeking an itch in the vein. Mycroft winced.

  “Merry Christmas, brother dear.” He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and placed the violin Mrs. Hudson had given him as a ‘remembrance’ in his brother’s lap. Sherlock’s eyes lost the deadened expression they had been harboring, and lit up as they had when he had been a child with a pile of garishly wrapped presents.

 “Thank you.” He whispered. Mycroft still hadn’t grown used to the civilizing effect John Watson had on Sherlock’s manners, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

 For the next two weeks, the house was filled with mournful and frustrated melodies, alternating without warning.

 --

   On Christmas Eve, Sherlock watched John Watson arrange a blanket of wired pine boughs and poinsettia flowers over his grave. It was a ridiculous spectacle, the only one in the cemetery trussed up in such a way, calling attention to the stone as if it were a house lit attic to ground with fairy lights and plastic nativity figures to compete with the neighbors. “There.” John had huffed, setting himself down beside it. “Let no one think that you weren’t loved.” He choked on the words, and Sherlock felt an aching pain deep in his chest even as a short laugh crossed his lips, for his sarcastic thought had been true.

   January 6th was a Sunday, but Sherlock knew that John would have come anyway. John was a man dripping with sentiment. It surged behind his dark eyes, lingered in his voice, in his touch. It had long since ceased to annoy Sherlock. He’d come to count on it.

  John arrived with an armful of flowers, a dozen long stemmed white roses to go with the one customary red. “Hello, Sherlock.” He began. “Odd, this, hmm? I never thought I’d be … that I’d bring these sort of flowers to… someone who… who’s…” he raked a shaking hand across his face.

“Dead.” Sherlock supplied through the screen, although John couldn’t hear him.

 “I never knew. I mean, I never wanted to know when I had the chance. You’d have laughed at me. Wouldn’t have been nasty about it, no, but you wouldn’t have understood. Idiots like me, always needing someone in their bed. God, Sherlock, if I had one more day, I’d ask you. Not just the sex, I mean. I mean I’d _properly_ ask you. I’d do anything. I’d sit at your feet and tell you how bloody brilliant you are. I’d look after you. I’d give up everything else, whatever you wanted. I’d do anything for just one more day, because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be another year, Sherlock. You cheated me of another year.”

  Sherlock stumbled out of the room, unable to face John’s tirade. Once he was in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his overheated face, he noticed the red marks on his inner arm, and the blood beneath his nails. He changed into a long sleeved jumper, despite the fact that Mycroft would know the reason anyway.

 January 29th was not a Sunday. Sherlock held his breath as John laid two red roses on his grave, and pressed his lips against the stone. Sherlock exhaled, temporarily forgiven.


	8. Chapter 8

 A curious spark of happiness flickered in Sherlock’s chest. With the help of Mycroft’s agents, he had succeeded in indirectly securing the arrest of four men assisting the lone gunman, Sebastian Moran. Three for embezzlement, and one for espionage- a prolific sort, who, aside from passing information on about John and, to a lesser degree, Lestrade, had been siphoning classified information from the files of the Metropolitan Police to three terrorist cells. Then, of course, there was the matter of John. _The_ matter, that of being ‘properly’ asked. For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself in a romantic relationship, and with someone he actually _wanted_ to be with. There was the slight problem that they couldn’t speak, and that John assumed him to be dead, but that was a relatively temporary matter, of course. John had implied, and Sherlock had accepted, and so it was a legitimate enterprise. Soon enough, he could let John know. It was settled in his mind, the rest was all so much red tape.

 What would it be like, he wondered, to be with John Watson? Much of it would remain the same as it had been, he decided, with intensified physical dimensions. Sherlock disliked kissing, the mess of  increased saliva, the exchange of almost three hundred different types of germs (albeit mostly harmless), the awkward clicking of teeth, the subtle manipulation involved in initiating a kiss in the first place- had always seemed a tiresome, ridiculous thing to him. Yet, he would like to kiss John, he thought, because John was loyal, and if Sherlock kissed him, it meant that no one else would be able to.

 There would be sex, of course, and he was fairly certain that he would enjoy that. Sherlock savored John’s touches, a pat on the shoulder, a ruffling of his hair, their thighs pressed together on the small sofa they sometimes lounged on to watch mindless telly. He’d found himself encouraging these touches. To press his bare skin against John’s, without pretense, just to enjoy the fact that they were together, would please him. It would solidify it in John’s mind, that he was Sherlock’s, and, being able to sate himself on Sherlock’s body, he would have no need of those common, annoying women he was so fond of. John’s sentiment and loyalty would not allow it. Sherlock would not allow it. He would have John to himself, at last. Orgasm was an afterthought. Like any man, Sherlock knew how to take care of that himself when the occasional need arose, so it wouldn’t matter much to him if John was rubbish in bed, or a god. What was important was the _claim._

  Sherlock buttoned his coat against the chill, and mentally prepared himself for the chase. Tonight, he would find Sebastian Moran, and shoot him dead. His want, his _need_ , had become stronger than his morals.

\---

 “So, when Sarah said that you liked eighteenth century art, she was exaggerating a bit, right?” Mary Morstan chuckled, tucking a stray pale curl into her hat.

 “You found me out. Sorry.” John replied, sheepishly. “I hope that you didn’t feel, you know, rushed. You could have looked at the paintings longer. I wouldn’t have minded. ” He held open the door of the café for her, and they settled into a booth. Mary took up a menu.

 “I’ll tell you a secret. I don’t like eighteenth century art, either. Those hideous babies are the worst. Just the house latte for me, I think.”

 “Black coffee and a roll is fine, thanks.” John nodded to the waitress. “Maybe Sarah is the one who likes it, then.”

 Mary shrugged. “I think she was just trying to do both of us a good turn, really. And I do appreciate it, John. I do.” Their drinks arrived, and she held the chunky mug between gloved fingers, blowing on the steaming surface.

 “I ought to be thanking you, really. I was dreadful company last time, and you came back for another round.” John offered her a small smile. She was a pretty girl, prettier than he would have given himself credit for attracting. She was pale and slender, her dark gold hair curling about her ears in a way that seemed natural.  There was a bit of mascara on her light eyelashes, and she wore a bit of lip gloss, but overall, not a girl who fussed with her appearance. She had a bit of an intellectual air about her. They had nothing in common but a mutual friend, and two long periods of mourning, but it was enough.

  Mary’s eyes, which had seemed distant, refocused on him. “When I was a kid, my dad had this rocking chair. He’d sit in it and read the paper, and the more the news upset him, the more he’d rock, back and forth for hours. We used to laugh at him because of it, you know. But when my mum died, he just sat in that chair for weeks, not saying anything, not acknowledging anyone, just staring into space. It was scary. It just kept getting worse, until the morning he shot himself. He’d been taking some medicine, had been on it for a couple of years, but you know, it wasn’t so advanced then as it is today.”

 “Jesus.” John breathed, “I’m… I’m sorry.”

 She shook her head. Her curls bounced about her ears, like Sherlock’s used to do. At least they weren’t dark. John didn’t think he could have handled that. “Don’t be. You’re helping. I needed to make myself get out more, you know, so I wouldn’t have a chance to give into it.”

 John nodded, the familiar dejection settling over his heart. “Me, too.” He admitted. "It’s easier, isn’t it. Easier than… whatever we’re both trying to do.”

  “Sometimes, I guess.” She agreed.

 John settled the bill, and helped her into her coat. “Shall we try it again sometime?” he asked, feebly.

 She smiled at him, and nodded. “Oh, no.” she groaned. “It’s coming down buckets out there.”

 John struggled out of his jacket. “Here, mine has a hood.” He offered.

 Mary shook her head, and startled as a man tapped her shoulder, offering her an umbrella.  “Here you are, miss.” The man was tall, with graying dark blond hair that made him look older than he likely was. A faint scar marked the left side of his face, from the corner of his eye to this ear.  He seemed an unlikely gentleman, and Mary felt slightly guilty for judging him a brutish sort when they had first arrived.

 “Thank you.” she managed.

 “Cheers, mate.” John nodded to him, feeling slightly embarrassed.

The man laughed. “Careful I don’t steal your girl.”

 John thanked him once again, and held open the door as Mary fumbled with the umbrella. Together, they braved the storm.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 It had been a full month since Greg Lestrade had taken his bizarre holiday at the Crowne Plaza. The first day, he had slept. The next five, he had indulged in luxuries beyond his means. On the seventh day, he returned to a spotless flat; new carpeting, new paint, and a full refrigerator, which was something that that particular flat had never seen the likes of before. Even his laundry had been folded. The bizarre evidence of the incident aside, it was beginning to feel like things were back to normal.

 Except. Except for the fact that he had been dreaming about Mycroft Holmes, almost every night. In his dreams, he ran alongside the brilliant man, adrenaline coursing through his body. Sometimes he fought alongside him. Sometimes he took orders from him. And once, thank God, only once, he had done racier things with him than he’d ever attempted with his ex-wife. He was beginning to wonder if demotion was making him lose his mind. He wondered if this was what John Watson had felt, how Sherlock had first come to possess his life. He sighed, knowing that he could never ask that particular question without risking a black eye. He rose, and fetched a beer from the fridge, suddenly missing John. He ought to try to talk to him again. Maybe the apology would stick this time. Lestrade grimaced as he swallowed the first gulp of the beer, and checked its label. Foreign. Expensive. He tried it again, doubtfully. Acceptable.

\--

 Sherlock winced as he pulled himself onto the railing of the abandoned building. His arm, though healed, was still protesting. All traces of Moran led to this address. Every little piece of evidence he had scraped, using his own means and Mycroft’s, indicated that this hole was his chief safe house. Edging along the walls, he remembered finding, to his surprise, that Moriarty had shown particular favoritism in his assignments to Moran. Therefore, Moran ought to have a more fortified base of operations. Therefore, this was a trap. How it was a trap, Sherlock wasn’t quite sure, but it was likely in the form of an ambush. Ten of Mycroft’s men were stationed about the building, plain clothes disguising enough artillery to bring down a regiment.  Mycroft had sent them, circled around the dingy warehouse, just in case. It made him feel better. Sherlock hated to admit that it was a comfort to him, as well.

 Sherlock crept through a room stacked with wooden crates. Guns. Boxes of bullets. Enough firepower to fuel a cartel. That seemed likely, a cartel. Moriarty was bound to have kept more than a few, just for the revenue.  The building as long and narrow in its proportions, so despite its size, it felt terribly cramped. Dimly, Sherlock wondered how much worse it had been a century ago, with hundreds of young, unwashed girls crammed elbow to elbow, the din of the antique machines rattling beneath their fingers.

  Suddenly, he heard the clicking, flickering noise of a fluorescent bulb struggling to life.  Sherlock stiffened, bracing himself against whomever, whatever could see him exposed in the floodlight. On the far wall, the side of a large, decaying crate with the faint legend _Goldberg Shirtwaist co._ was painted over in an incandescent scarlet paint: JIM SENDS HIS LOVE.  A puff of smoke emerged from it, followed by a flame, quickly catching the dry wood of its neighbors.

 Sherlock glanced frantically about him, and dove for a rusty crowbar near his feet. Pulling his phone from his jacket, he quickly texted: **_RUN EXPLOSIVES_ ** and ran for the filthy, half broken window. With the combined might of the crowbar and his right shoulder, he tumbled into the yard and was a dozen yards away by the time the fire reached the gunpowder. He was knocked off his feet, and showered in debris.

\---

 “How is this possible?” Sherlock growled, pacing agitatedly about Mycroft’s study. “Those triggers. Moran can’t have been clever enough for that. He’s dead, Mycroft, I know that he’s dead, I saw it myself, with the evidence of my own senses and the luxury of inspecting the body un-tampered.”

 Mycroft sighed. “He’s simply left a legacy, brother, and Moran is competent enough to read instructions. “ He gave Sherlock the reassuring look that he had employed to rationalize away any childhood fear.  

 “Right.” Sherlock raked his hand through his soot-smeared curls.  “Right.”

 “There is nothing more we can do today.” Mycroft soothed him. “You need a bath.” Mycroft cast a pained, resigned glance at the Persian rug beneath his brother’s shoe. It would need more scrubbing than Sherlock did.

 “Another thing, dear.” Mycroft added. “The electronic information we had gathered on Moran has been deleted from its original sources, and replaced with contradicting files. “ Mycroft handed his brother his Blackberry.

 “He’s done this before.”

 “Sherlock, a man and his work _can_ exist apart. This is fear speaking. He is dead, gone. His coding is not. While we cannot be certain if it is Moran, or a savvy assistant making the changes, the changes are what we must focus on.”

  “The original information was a trap. The replacement information is likely one, too.”

 “Perhaps.” Mycroft sighed. “Or, perhaps it is a half truth. Either way, we must be careful.”

 “Or not rely on technology as much as we have.” mused Sherlock, leaving blackened fingerprints on Mycroft’s screen.

 “Bath. Now.” Mycroft ordered.


	10. Chapter 10

  John hadn’t had sex in… he frowned, unable to place a date. That certainly wasn’t a good feeling. Thus, he had assumed that when he did have sex again, it would be a relief.

 Three months later, he found that it was nothing but self-consciousness and guilt. Mary deserved better than what he was giving. His body was with her, but his mind wandered, as though he were flicking through the telly.  He was pleased to find that Mary was reasonably talented and experienced, ( _Sherlock had been a virgin,_ his mind echoed as he enjoyed her talents). Mary was a morning person ( _Sherlock would stay up all night and still be working through breakfast, or sleep until afternoon_ ).  Mary was a considerate and attentive friend ( _what sort of masochist am I to miss his tantrums?_ )

 John had meant to move on. Mary had made more progress than he had, and she had been married before all of this, for God’s sake! It wasn’t fair to her. It wasn’t fair to him. He had to try harder, somehow, because he really, _really_ liked her. Perhaps he even loved her. He hoped that he did, or would, soon.

\--

If Mycroft Holmes never saw Beijing again, he felt, it would be too soon. With a small sigh, he sunk into the seat of his familiar, comfortable sedan, and closed his eyes.

 “Sir.”

“Mmmh?”

“We’ve  just gotten signal. It’s your brother, sir. The staff says that he hasn’t left his room in four days. He hasn’t eaten much of anything.” A quiet sympathy was laced through her words.

 “Bugger.” Mycroft groaned.

 “You should take one of your pills, sir. Before it gets worse.” Ever-efficient, she produced the proper dose, and a small flask of water.

 “You are a rare gem, my dear.” Mycroft sighed, swallowing the pill and leaning into the deceptively strong fingers that were working the knot from his neck. “Leave it to me, it would be cruel to inflict the little bastard on you after that wretched flight.  I can manage alone for the rest of the day.”

 She nodded, and capped the flask.

\--

Mycroft cracked open the door, and frowned as a cloud of smoke nearly choked him. He strode across the room, and flung the balcony door wide. “Where did you get those?” he snatched the nearly empty pack from the low table beside his brother’s limp form.  Sherlock didn’t answer, but stared past him.

 “You can’t do this now, Sherlock. You have to keep your focus. Look at me, Sherlock.” Mycorft cupped his chin in his hand and turned his brother’s face toward his.

 “Do you know what he did, Mycroft?” Sherlock slurred. He’d been in the wine, too, Mycroft noted.

 “Do inform me, brother dear. The more direct the information, the better.”

 Sherlock laughed. “He brought a woman to my grave.  Can you believe that?” His laugh became louder, sharper. “If I hadn’t been buried before, I am now. To my _grave_. Couldn’t he have just taken her to bed?”

 “Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed. His mind began to spin, a dozen possible solutions to a problem that he hadn’t fully heard.

 “It’s fine, you know. It’s all fine. My life for his, that was the idea, wasn’t it? It’s all worked out. He gets to live his life. I don’t exist anymore. It’s better that way, to be dead. Moran won’t see me coming. How many times have I died, Mycroft? After I officially died? Do you suppose that he bothered to check the DNA on the body in the warehouse? I’d hate to lose my edge, after so much work.”

 “Shh. You won’t. We won’t. Come here.” Mycroft knelt on the carpet, and pulled his brother to his side.

 Sherlock tucked his head under his chin. “I want to go home, My. I’ve had enough.”

 “You won’t feel that way when you’ve sobered up.” Mycroft scolded.

 Sherlock grunted against his jacket.

 “Did you find any leads while I was gone?” Mycroft stroked back his brother’s hair. “You stink, by the way.”

 “Shut up. Only one, but it ran cold.” Sherlock shifted. “He hasn’t left the country. I’ve seen every passenger, on every flight leaving. Sea, as well. His name and the aliases connected with Moriaty’s accounts aren’t coming up on credit transactions like they had been, so he’s using cash. He most likely believes that he’s gotten rid of me, so perhaps he is afraid of you.”

  “As he should be.” Mycroft replied.

\--

   Mycroft hummed to himself as he collected the tasteful spray of orchids from the seat beside him, and left the sedan. He walked slowly and purposely forward, towards the secluded, empty gravesite of his brother, and the prone, desolate form of John Watson.


	11. Chapter 11

 John traced his fingers over the golden letters of Sherlock’s name. The single rose he had brought seemed insignificant against the cold, dark stone. He suddenly wished he had brought a vibrant display, like he’d seen on several of the graves along the way. He sighed to himself. It was no use, he knew. Even if he’d brought the contents of an entire florist shop, it could not erase the unease and guilt he felt, deep in his stomach. It was difficult to determine if the guilt was caused by his carrying on a one sided affair with a dead man behind his girlfriend’s back, or that he had admitted his affection for his girlfriend before Sherlock’s grave. Distantly, he remembered as a child his mother telling him and Harry that God was everywhere, and that He would see everything that they did, so they had better behave. Typical motherly scolding, he now knew, but it had kept his eight year old self awake at night, wondering if he had somehow made God angry that day. It felt the same with Sherlock. John had spent the first few weeks of his grief imagining that Sherlock clung to him, like a guardian angel of sorts, and now he couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal that this thought aroused in him.

  A shadow approached him, and he tensed. Very few people would disturb him at Sherlock’s grave. It was a substantial shadow, a man. Lestrade would know better. That left only Mycroft. John slowly rose, and turned.

 “Forgive me, John.” The man blustered. “I hadn’t expected you to be here.”

 “You’ve got cameras all over the city. You know damn well where I am at all times.” John countered.  

 Mycroft didn’t answer, but set his elegant display of flowers beside John’s pathetic single rose.  _Typical Holmes trait, silence to deny wrongdoing._

 “So, what is it, then, that’s too important to text or kidnap me?” John made an effort to stand straight, not lean too heavily on his cane.

  “I want to apologize, John.” Mycroft met his eyes with such intensity that John was unable to look away. Intentness, like Sherlock on the hunt- John felt his knees weaken, and his chest clutch in grief. “John… I need you to understand only one thing. My brother was my world. Since he was born, barely four pounds, I’ve wanted to protect him. I’d been to visit him in hospital. I overheard the nurses speaking, and do you know what they said? They said that he wouldn’t live. That our parents were fools for wasting money, and that they should just bin the poor thing. I was livid.” Mycroft’s lips pressed together grimly.

 John sucked in his breath, rage flooding his chest; temporarily aligning his sympathies with Mycroft. How could anyone say such a thing, in a medical profession? How could anyone say that about _any_ child, let alone the man he loved?

  “You can imagine that he didn’t find friendship or mental stimulation among his peers.” Mycroft continued. “I did all that I could for him. He was just as much my child as our parents’- possibly more so, for all the time our father was working and Mummy- well.” Mycroft did not elaborate. “I had grown so complacent in the idea that I knew what was best for him. I didn’t think that it was in my power to harm him. I made a dreadful mistake, one that I will regret for the rest of my life, and I foolishly looked to you to take responsibility for protecting him. It was humiliating to admit what I’d done. I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry, John.”

 Mycroft’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “All right.” John found himself saying, unevenly. “You are his flesh and blood, after all. Holding the sort of grudge that I’ve been, well, it won’t change what is, will it?” he swallowed, before continuing. “You’ve suffered too.”

 “Thank you.” Mycroft whispered. “John… my brother once asked me to look after you, should anything happen to him. You are his sole beneficiary. Please, accept what he’s given. I’d like for you to think of me as a brother.”

 John let out a small chuckle. “Like the way you and Sherlock were? Or, maybe you’d prefer what me and Harry have, being on speaking terms for only half the year? I think I could about manage that.”

  “I am not asking you to like me, John. I did not even ask that of my brother. All I ask is that you allow me to look after you as he wished, and that you will agree to come to me in times of need.” Mycroft gave him an appraising look, and John sighed.

 “I am indebted, John. You have saved him, so many times. You were his savior from the needle.” Mycroft reached into his inner coat pocket, and produced a small Moleskine journal, the type that Sherlock had always favored. He placed it in John’s hand, and gave it a little squeeze. “He adored you.” Mycroft added. “He was absolutely mad for you… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

 John’s face grew hot as he clutched the notebook, brimming with untold secrets.

 Mycroft cleared his throat. “You are the only one who was loyal to him.” His voice wavered. “You continue to be loyal to his memory, and I am in your debt, Doctor. It would have pleased him to see you here, remembering.” A crooked grin implied that this was a jest, but it wrenched John’s stomach. Loyal to Sherlock’s memory. Oh, God. He was unfaithful. Sherlock Holmes had _chosen_ him, a _nothing,_ and John had betrayed his misplaced love.

 Mycroft reached out his hand, and shook John’s. “Take care, John, and thank you.”

 John nodded, and watched Mycroft shuffle away; lacking the arrogant stride he associated with the man. He trembled, and leaned on the headstone behind him, willing himself to not be sick on the grave.

\--

 “Sir, are you all right?”

 Mycroft accepted the damp handkerchief she offered, and dabbed at his eyes. “Just gathering my thoughts.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve done my part, now we’ll see if Doctor Watson finds your narratives as provoking as I’d hoped.”

 “What shall we tell your brother?” She asked, a blush coloring her cheeks, and a small smirk on her lips.

 “I won’t put you in the line of fire.” Mycroft assured her. “When the time comes to make him aware, I will simply tell him to be grateful, and to memorize the contents, should the good doctor ever refer to them.”

 She was the first to giggle, and soon, Mycroft’s laughter followed.


	12. Chapter 12

  John dragged his feet as he returned to Mary’s flat. She would be home from work in an hour, and he had promised to make dinner. He sighed as he twisted his key in the door. He glanced around the cozy, tidy room, searching for any possessions he might need in the near future. There was a depressing lack of them. If he died today, he thought, the only evidence of his existence on earth that wouldn’t wind up in the bin or at Oxfam was a disused blog. He wasn’t sure if that was comforting or depressing. At least he wouldn’t leave a lot for other people to bother sorting out.

 He gathered pasta, broccoli, olive oil, chicken- set them in a neat line and methodically began his task. He had been an idiot to get himself into this situation at all. Torn between a beautiful girl and a dead man, and wanting to run away and hide from them both. _It could be a summer comedy blockbuster_ , he thought to himself as he stabbed the chicken with a fork and flipped it over. _Only if my life were a film, I could mourn for years in peace without having to go to work in the morning and pretend that everything is fine for eight to ten hours every damn day._ His conversation with Mycroft nagged at the back of his mind. Sole beneficiary.  Maybe he didn’t have to go to work in the morning, after all- but that would be giving up his pride to Mycroft. Did it really matter anymore? He had been officially forgiven.  

 “Hey.” Mary pecked his cheek, and slung the strap of her handbag over the back of a kitchen chair. He hadn’t even heard her come in. “John… what’s wrong?” she asked, a small crease of worry between her brows.

  The fork slipped from John’s fingers, and he began to cry.

\--

  “I’m sorry, Constable Lestrade. You still need to make an appointment.” The plain, earnest young man behind the desk was obviously sympathetic, but not willing to even consider an exception.

 “I’m, ah, look, I’m a friend of the family.” Lestrade tried again.

 “I’m sorry, sir.” The boy’s eyes flickered down to the screen before him. “Mr. Holmes is otherwise occupied until the twenty-seventh.”

  “The twenty-! All right. That’s all right. Thank you.” Lestrade groaned. He left the office with a small rectangular card on which was penned _11:45_ in a fastidious hand. He fumbled with his phone and paused a moment, steeling his will.

**_We need to talk, it’s important. Not just an apology, but that too. Buy you a pint? GL_ **

\--

 John had never told a girl that he ‘needed space’. It was laughable in his mind, to say something so cliché. He had reached a new personal low.

 “I’ve had nights like that, too, because of James.” Mary confessed. She was petting his hand. She ought to be smacking him. God, he was low. “I used to wait until you were asleep, and go to the kitchen, just eat whatever I could find until I felt sick.”

 “Why didn’t you ever just say?” John asked, sadly.

 “I couldn’t. I mean, what would you have thought if I’d burst into tears right after having sex with you?” she sighed.

 “God. I’m- I didn’t- I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I never-“

 “Yeah, I know.” She grew quiet, and John felt the need to fill the space between them, before she drifted away.

 “I still want to see you.” He began, feebly. “I mean, can we still, you know. How we get dinner. On Fridays.”

  She nodded. “I want that, too.”

  “Great. I’m glad. It’s just so hard to-“ he found his throat suddenly frozen. He was suddenly incapable of even saying the words ‘move on.’ God, he was pathetic.

 “Listen, why don’t you stay here tonight? I think it would be bad for both of us to be alone. We can watch a movie or something.”

 John hugged her tight, nodding.

\--

 Lestrade’s mind wandered as he thumbed through the thick file he’d accumulated through hours of research. It had begun as killing time, but now…

  _It’s not just an excuse to meet with Mycroft bloody Holmes,_ he repeated to himself. _It’s just that no one else would bother to properly look into it._ Mycroft would know what to do, if John Watson was in danger. After how he’d failed to stand up for Sherlock… if anything happened to John, after he had so much as a suspicion beforehand, he didn’t think that he could live with himself. The death of one friend was more than enough on his tired, jaded conscience.

 He raked his hand through his hair. It was getting long. Maybe he’d better see to that before meeting Mycroft. Shine his shoes, too- he’d feel like a homeless man the moment he stood beside Mycroft, in his perfectly tailored suit. Or maybe he shouldn’t. Mycroft would deduce that he’d just had his hair cut, his shoes shined, his shirt pressed neatly. It would be, for lack of a better word, _odd_. Mycroft would think he was out to impress him, which he wasn’t, was he?

 Except that he was toying with the idea of asking the man to dinner. Just to test the waters, really. He’d never fancied a man before in his life, but he was fairly certain that he was now, if only a little.  He felt a bit self conscious at the thought. His friends at the yard would say it was a mid life crisis, and joke about it to no end. After his demotion, he’d wanted nothing more than to blend into the scenery at work, have all eyes pass over him as though he were a piece of furniture. More than that, his girls… _no_ , he thought, rebelliously. _They wouldn’t care. We didn’t raise them that way._ Oh, but their mother would have a ball with it, wouldn’t she.

 So, dinner. The best he could afford would be average for Mycroft. Then again, he didn’t want to seem over the top. Still, he couldn’t bring Mycroft someplace _he_ was fond of eating. The idea of asking someone to dinner, after all, was for the other person to have a nice time. Still, he’d be damned if he let Mycroft pay the bill…

 This was providing that he even agreed to go, of course. He might have to be penciled in in another three or five years. He decided to get his hair cut after all; it would have a bit of time to grow in before the twenty-seventh.


	13. Chapter 13

 The doorbell chimed at precisely eight o’clock. John Watson, when unencumbered by Sherlock’s whims, was apparently a punctual man. Lestrade made his way to the door, nervously realizing that the things he had carefully planned to say had scattered hopelessly in his brain. Cautiously, he opened the door. John nodded at him. “Hey.” he greeted, in a quiet, calm voice.

 “John… thanks for coming, mate. I’ll get you a beer.” Lestrade retrieved two bottles from the vegetable crisper and sat, motioning for John to join him.  “Listen, John, I…”

 “Never mind that. I forgave you months ago.” There was something odd and lifeless about John’s voice, about the abruptness of the acceptance. It was something that disturbed Lestrade more than if he’d lashed out.

 “Thank you.” he managed.

 “If I can forgive Mycroft, the worst of it is done, I suppose.” John mused.

 “Yeah. About that. I asked you here because I didn’t want to say the things I’m going to say in a pub. I’m not supposed to say a thing, but a few weeks back, Mycroft Holmes killed an assassin right about where you’re sitting. Replaced the carpet, too.”

 “Why are you telling me, then?” John asked, looking only mildly surprised at the news.

 “Well, I suppose because I trust you, and I think I trust him. If he’d gone through the trouble of saving my life, I doubt he’d be arsed with killing me for sharing, so long as it doesn’t go beyond you. Listen, John. The bottom line is this. Mycroft said that Moriarty sent him-“

“-So, you believe in Moriarty now?” John quipped, coldly.

 “I thought you said I was forgiven.” Lestrade returned, evenly.

  “Right. Sorry. I guess it’s still a raw nerve.” John’s ears grew red as he looked away.

 “So, you know I’ve had what you might call spare time lately. In spades.” Lestrade sighed, and set a thick paper file on the table between then. “I’ve been doing a bit of research, the sort that I’m not exactly authorized to do anymore. The point is, John, he’s sent them after you, too. You have to get out. Leave London while you can.”

 “Funny that Mycroft didn’t say anything about it to me.” John’s eyes narrowed. “What is it that you’re not telling me, Greg?”

 “Look, I can’t answer for him. He broke in, killed a bloke, and kicked me out of my own home while he cleared up. I haven’t heard from him since. Just please, listen to me on this one. I don’t want to file the paperwork for your homicide.” John gave him a suspicious, imploring look, one that he had almost certainly learnt from Sherlock.  After a moment of hesitation, he relented. “Shit, John-I didn’t want to have to talk about this.”

 “Tell me.”

 “Sherlock-“ he winced, having to speak his dead friend’s name to John, “Before he jumped. He left his phone on the roof. He was recording the conversation he had with Moriarty… two differing opinions, one that he forced Moriarty, you know, Brook’s hand, to confess this awful nonsense before shooting him dead-“

  A small growl formed in John’s throat, Lestrade didn’t think he’d even noticed it.

 “And a few officers came through on Sherlock’s side of the story. It’s a cold case now. The point being, I saw the transcript. Moriarty had him cornered. I believe that Sherlock wasn’t lying- I mean, I can’t, not just because I know I was wrong, because he was my friend, but seeing that gunman with my own eyes, splattered on my walls, knowing that it should’ve been me. Sherlock, he did it to save our lives.” Lestrade passed the papers to John, and waited, nervous and awkward. He drained the last of his beer, and tried not to focus on how John’s jaw was tight, his fists clenched, eyes red and wet. After what felt like an excruciatingly long time, John pushed the papers back to him.

 “You see what I mean, now.” Lestrade pleaded. “John, you have to get out. It just isn’t safe. Please.”

 “No.”

 “John- be reasonable, man! Don’t undo what he did for us.”

 “Don’t talk to me about undoing.” John snapped. “I’m not going. I’m not going to be driven out of my home again. If that bastard comes near me, he’ll get a bullet for his troubles, hell, he might not have to wait to come near me.”

  “Since when is your solution to a problem killing a man?” Lestrade argued. John’s silence said volumes, and he suddenly found himself feeling lost and baffled. Had he misread his gentle, reasonable friend, or was it simply rage and grief getting the better of him? Sherlock would know, but Sherlock was dead- and no thanks to him for helping matters along. He couldn’t let John do this, it would be letting Sherlock down, and he owed the man at least this much. He owed John, as well, who was too kind to turn killer.

 “John, please. I haven’t forgiven myself. I can’t let you do this. Please.” If only he could reason through his panic! He used to be able to, back when he mattered.

 “I’m going to find whoever he’s got left, and I’m going to bury them.” John snarled. “You can either lock me up now, or let me be.”

 Lestrade took a deep breath, and made a decision before he could lose his nerve. “I’m going to help you. If you’re going to do this, you can’t do it alone. I’ll find out whatever I can- help cover your tracks- but promise me, John, promise that you won’t do something rash, that you won’t go off on your own. Please.”

 Slowly, John regarded him, and; squaring his shoulders in unconscious military discipline, nodded.

 


	14. Chapter 14

 Sherlock closed his eyes, tucking his bare feet under himself, and drew a deep breath, before letting it out and allowing shallower, natural breaths to become slower. He summoned to his thoughts the image of John Watson, embellishing it with facts and trivia and memories. John’s eyes, compassionate and dark; John’s scent, John’s laugh, and most importantly, John’s voice.  Bits and pieces of John flickered in his visual memory, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could almost hold a visual image for a few seconds before it scattered into snippets and ghosts of color and data.

 Slowly, the algorithm took shape, every glimpse of John that he’d deduced and stored away, every conversation that had occurred between them, pooling at his fingertips. John’s image was ghostly, inconsistent, but his voice was strong in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock reached out to not-John, and sighed in contentment as his mind made comfortable associations.

 “John…oh, my John. I miss you. I can’t do this without you. How did I ever do this without you?” Sherlock knelt before the flickering jumble of images.

_You don’t have to, you silly git. I’m here._

 “Yes, I know. I need for you to help me think.”

   _Fancy you needing help for that. All right, Sherlock. I’m here. Take me through it_.

   “Moran is the last gunman. Since he’s revived the mission, there’s something in it for him, something big for all this bother. He’s figured out that he’s next in line. Too tempting to pass up. Billions of pounds, limitless power… but I was an obstacle. Either he knows that he didn’t kill me at the warehouse, or he has another reason to continue hunting you…”

_Or, he’s inherited it. I’m a lose end, a debt of honor._

“Moriarty wouldn’t think of anyone but himself. Why would he?”

  _Sentiment?_ Not-John chuckled.

 “He isn’t human.” Sherlock growled.

_You know better than that._

 “Moran can’t be any better. Mycroft told me about what happened in Baghdad. He can’t have a debt of honor.”

_Doesn’t mean that he’s a machine, Sherlock. Criminals have their codes too, you know._

“If it’s solely profit, he wouldn’t see you as a threat. So, then yes. He’s settling a score, like a Mafioso. If it’s any kind of passion, it’s brute force, terrorism, the worst sort of manipulation. ”

_Look for the pattern, Sherlock. I know that you can see it. He’s planned every move. Nothing is random. It’s a game. You know the pattern already, you clever, brilliant thing._

 Sherlock paced, agitated. “I can’t see it, John. I can’tdo this without you. Tell me where he’ll strike next.” He stopped, reaching his fingers through the vague outline of not-John’s jumper. “I can’t think. Without you, without the cocaine… but I’ve stayed clean, John. Mycroft will tell you that. I wouldn’t, not with you at stake. I promise you. Just tell me what to do, John. Tell me what to do so that I can come home to you. I’ll never leave you again, just please, please forgive me…” Sherlock’s body seized, and shook with dry, heaving sobs, to his horror.

 Not-John gazed at him, detached, puzzled. The algorithm had no data to respond to his distress, for he had never spoken words of love and passion to John, never begged for compassion. It had no answer to his plea, it knew only what Sherlock knew.

_Wake up, Sherlock. Mycroft will take care of you._

 Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped, gulping down great lungfuls of air as his heart thundered in his chest. He collapsed against the pillows piled high on his bed. His fingers twitched, searching for his phone. After a long moment, he typed.

 

  _**It’s me again. I need to talk about the ex. Will send car for you. S**_

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 The crosshairs of his rifle framed the form of John Watson, a perfect composition. It was a daily ritual, one that still retained enough significance to not be a habit. Sebastian lowered the barrel, gazing with befuddled interest as his target knelt on the damp grass, pressing his palm against black stone. His head bent down, as though in prayer, and it seemed as though his lips were about to touch the earth, yes, he was hungrily longing for contact with his dead mate. Sebastian knew the feeling, _the urge to burrow deep into the earth, to shake life into the ungrateful bastard and press against the corpse, as though he could seep your life through it in death the way he had always done, taking everything, taking over, always taking._ And Sebastian had no one to blame but himself, because he had always allowed him to _take_.

  He who had given life had taken it away- oh, the horrid cliché, _you bastard, you would have laughed…_

 And Sebastian raised his gun again, to the stoic form of John Watson. John Watson, a man who knew what it meant to rise from hopelessness and disgrace, only to fall into this pointless meaninglessness. Jim would have wanted him to suffer. A bullet would be mercy, he tells himself. Sebastian had his orders… _make him suffer, defile the corpse…_  Sebastian drew in a sharp breath, the thought making him hard. When the time was right, he would make that bastard proud… but for the moment, he watched the suffering man, and felt a pang of sympathy. Soon.

 --

 Molly followed the posh, sleek woman through the gates of the stately home, not quite large enough to be a mansion, but so much more than a mere house. The soft, dark woman stopped suddenly, and stood aside, gesturing for Molly to enter a spacious room alone. Molly paused, and, halfway through the arch, knocked lightly.

 “Molly.” Sherlock was suddenly beside her, taking her coat. Uncharacteristically gracious, she noted. _He must be lonely._

 “Hey. I’ve missed you.” She offered. “I’ve no one to talk to all day.”

 “I’ve got my brother. Do you envy me so much?” Sherlock poured tea into a delicate cup, and placed the saucer in her hands.

  Molly’s eyes scanned Sherlock’s battered form. “Let me see.” She pushed back a lock of hair, noting the elaborate stitches beneath. Bruises on the forearm, a patch of skin all over burns… “Whoever’s been working on you is good.” she concluded. “I wish you didn’t need so much work, though.”

 “Don’t fuss.” Sherlock’s voice was almost gentle. His eyes were oddly soft. _Gratitude_. _Who would ever have thought him capable?_

 “I can’t tell you much.” Molly cleared her throat, wanting to have the interrogation over with. “We weren’t together all that long, you know.” She began to fidget with the cup, dreading Sherlock’s prodding. She was sensible enough to know that the plaster that is ripped off quickly does the least harm, and wise enough to Sherlock’s ways to know that he had little empathy when information was at stake.

 “Did he ever mention someone named Sebastian Moran?” Sherlock asked, flatly.

 Molly flinched. “There was a Sebastian. I didn’t ask a surname. It was why we broke up.” She frowned at him. “I accused him after-“ _Why did he always have to ruin everything?_

 “I’m sorry.”

 “You aren’t.” Molly snapped. “Well, surprise surprise, you know. You were right. He said he was trying to get himself to _change_ , which is bullshit.” Sherlock’s head snapped up, scrutinizing her in confusion. “I get cross sometimes.” Molly explained, the look on his face almost enough to make her feel better. “I’m not cross with you, not really. Just with myself.”

 “Yourself?” Sherlock asked, plainly puzzled. If only she had a camera.

 “He used me. I was stupid enough to let him.” _Just like you used me_ , she frowned. _No, no, it’s different, to help a friend. Except that I thought he was my friend, too._

 “You cannot blame yourself for being taken in by him.” Sherlock shook his head, fiercely. “We all were.”

 “I thought he cared about me, but he just wanted to get me to talk about you.” She sipped her tea, which was growing cold. “Although there’s something that’s bothered me for a long time. Maybe he did, just a little bit.”

 “Molly, no…”

 “He didn’t order me dead, did he? Me, or your brother. Your brother, he knew he wasn't a match for. He thought you didn’t care about him. Me, though, he knew we were friends. I mean… aren’t we?” She looked sidelong at him, shyly.

 Sherlock nodded, slowly. “You’re a clever girl, Molly Hooper.” He offered her a rare, small smile.

 “I don’t know anything about this Sebastian.” Molly blushed, looking down at her fingertips bunching the material of her blouse.

 “You’ve confirmed quite a bit. Now, will you stay for dinner? My brother will be here, but if that doesn’t make you lose your appetite, he never skimps on luxury.”

 Molly nodded. Even if the meal was meant to soothe her enough to talk openly about Jim, she found that she missed Sherlock’s company too much to care.


	16. Chapter 16

 Mycroft frowned at his schedule. _11:45 Constable Gregory Lestrade._ He’d been puzzling over this bit of information for weeks, but it always was pushed to the back of his mind; hustled out of the way by other problems- and not just Sherlock’s. Now, on the day, with ten minutes left, he wondered what would possibly bring this man to him after he’d been assured of his safety. Perhaps it could help his brother. He paced a bit, allowing his customary six minutes before allowing his visitor in.

 Mycroft noted that Gregory Lestrade looked tired, but not in the same way that he had looked when he was working night shift on a homicide. Then, he had looked ragged, rugged, and tense. Now, he looked pale, tired, and edgy; a bit too much like Sherlock, if he were to be honest with himself. It seemed as though Lestrade was another man who needed to be in constant motion, something Mycroft could never fully understand. 

  _Clean shaven. Shirt and trousers ironed. Shoes shined. So, keeping up appearances and admirably so, but not eating or sleeping properly. Compensating. Why? Pride? He’s been demoted. It must sting, for a man like him._

 “It’s good of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade’s voice harbored only a trace of  annoyance and sarcasm. He offered his hand, and Mycroft shook it, with a bare hint of a smirk. _Feathers ruffled, Detective Inspector?_ Sherlock would outright laugh. He would, later, if Mycroft was in a generous mood.

 “The pleasure is all mine, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft answered, smoothly.

 Lestrade winced slightly. “I’m afraid it’s just ‘constable’ now.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

 “I refuse to acknowledge a demotion made out of incompetence.” Mycroft crossed the room, positioning himself behind his formidable desk. “Perhaps you would care for a drink?” Lestrade nodded, thanking him as he accepted the aged whiskey offered to him. He took a deep sip, and looked Mycroft in the eye, loosening his stiff posture and leaning forward in his seat. He suddenly seemed reassured, though if it were the taste of the alcohol or the compliment, Mycroft couldn’t tell.

 “I suppose you probably know why I’m here already, but, well, I’m here because of John Watson.” Lestrade spread out the contents of a worn manila folder before him, leaning slightly forward on the desk. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Holmes, but please, for your brother’s sake, look this over. There’s a hit out on John. The thing is, he won’t listen to reason and leave, or get the police involved. He’s going to fight, and he’s going to die. I hate to ask a favor like this, but-“

 “Nonsense. John is family now, whether he likes it or not.” he answered. “It isn’t a favor at all, Detective Inspector. I appreciate your… rather thorough work.” Mycroft scanned the papers, noting in surprise the details that arose. He would have to meet with Sherlock immediately; John’s active involvement was not something that they had planned for. Sherlock would be inconsolable once he knew. Mycroft bristled in annoyance, anticipating the scene.  “I assume that you know that John is already under my protection?”

 Lestrade hesitated, and nodded. “I do. And because of that, I’m gonna ask you another favor, if you will. If John doesn’t die, then someone else will. I can’t see him locked up for this. I’m not asking for myself, it’s my decision to be an accessory, but John… he’s not in his right mind. The thing is, I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me, and what you’re doing for him, but I need for your boys to look the other way. I can’t talk him out of it.” He spread his hands wide, to illustrate his frustration and helplessness.

 “Again, that is not a thing that needs asking. You and I are on the same side, Detective Inspector.”

 Lestrade nodded, and rose to his feet, a cautiously calculating expression flitting across his eyes. “You’d grant me a real favor, then.”

“I would consider it.” Mycroft folded his fingers together, and gazed at Lestrade with interest.

 “You’ll let me take you to dinner tonight.” he stated.

 Mycroft inwardly startled, but had the grace and training not to betray it. The bold thing was _smirking_ at him! His eyes flickered down to his schedule.  “Seven o’clock.” He replied automatically, a nervous flutter that came with not being prepared to anticipate and volley any given situation passing through him. Had he just agreed to this madness? He had, hadn’t he? Why did he always have the urge to _agree_ to things when he wasn’t prepared for them? He was certain that somehow, it was Mummy’s fault, in some deeply engrained psychological way.

  “I’ll meet you then.” Lestrade outright smiled. “I’ve got reservations at three different places, take your pick and text me.” He pulled a card from his jacket pocket, with an address scrawled across the back, and placed it on Mycroft’s desk. “One more favor, if you will. It’s Greg from now on, all right?”

 Mycroft waited for the sound of the lift chiming his departure before rising to close his door before resuming his nervous pacing. He shut down his computer and double checked all of his locks before sending a text to his PA that he’d be leaving early. Usually, he would call her, but he dreaded the conversation which he knew that they would have.

\--

 John’s fingers involuntarily reached for the notebook which had become a painfully conspicuous presence on his desk. As often as he had been tempted to read it, something always stopped him; respect for Sherlock’s privacy, he first supposed, only that didn’t seem quite it. It was more a sense of dread which he felt, as he imagined seeing Sherlock’s handwriting, his feelings laid bare for John to know. He sighed. It was time, wasn’t it? He had somehow fallen in love with Sherlock post mortem, and if what Mycroft had said was true, Sherlock… of course it was true. Sherlock had died for him. John owed it to them both to read this.

 With a deep, shaking breath, John opened the book, tracing his fingers over the familiar scrawl. It seemed to be random, formulas and experiment observations, occasionally punctured by a personal thought, brooding and broken, between scribbles.

  _I had it halfway in, I could feel it seeping in, when I knew that he would be home soon, and I was so ashamed-I pulled it out, and got it all down the drain in time- he would be ashamed of me if he saw-but there was the mark, and he is clever enough- I singed the skin over the mark, so that he wouldn’t see. The smell made me gag, I was sick in the sink. I hate myself, he cannot hate me._

 John’s stomach sank, and a horrible chill seized his body. He remembered a night, coming home from the pub, Sherlock trembling in agitation, pressing honey soaked gauze to his arm. Puddles of unknown acidic substances ate at the tabletop as John fussed over his burn. Had Sherlock staged the experiment?

More observations followed, the effects of battery acid on eyeballs … _Why won’t you answer my texts- come home come to me come home come home she isn’t for you come back He’s come, I am invincible, how is it possible that just being near is enough-as good as cornering a killer- my friend, my John- my purest solution- my friend- I suspect, if this is what that feeling is, to love would kill me. I will never fall in love._

 John slammed the notebook down so hard that his hand stung from the impact.

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

 Mycroft surveyed his wardrobe, and sighed. Nearly everything he owned was bespoke. He never questioned his tailor’s choices, because he trusted that a man who made his living on Savile Row knew what he was on about when he spoke to him about drape and weave, and trusted that the amount of money and elite clientele that flitted through the dusty old shop was all the proof he needed to know that he was well-dressed. A nagging voice in the back of his head, however, whispered that although seventy year old Mr. Dalloway was adept at dressing diplomats, he didn’t put much stock in GQ. Everything Mycroft owned, with the exception of his pajamas, was meant for _work_.

 After a moment’s hesitation, he selected a tasteful black suit and a white shirt. He frowned at his choice. It was plain, too plain. Blue shirt then. Ties. All of his ties went with something specific, Mr. Dalloway was insistent on that. Ties.  The monogamous relationships of ties and shirts.

 Mycroft was shaken from his reverie by a grunt coming from his bed. Sherlock was watching him, dangling one long leg over the mattress. “You’re really trying, aren’t you. You’re wearing cologne. You never wear cologne. You have a date.” 

 “Yes, Sherlock. Sometimes grown-ups like to spend time with other grown-ups.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, continuing the search for blue shirt’s tie.

  Sherlock rose from the bed, and circled him. “Who is it, then? You wouldn’t be trying so hard if it were your usual G8 hook up in a mens’ room stall at the convention center.”

 “Sher- I-I do not do _that_ in a _toilet_ , of all places _._ ” Mycroft fumbled with his cuff links, before handing them to his brother.”Make yourself useful.” He held out his arm.

 “Not unless you tell me who she is.” Sherlock cocked his head. “No, who _he_ is, this time. Someone younger, or at least stylish enough to bother fussing over.”

 “Wrong on both counts, brother dear. There’s barely a gap in our ages, and he, yes, he, I shall grant you that much, is dismally unfashionable.”

 Sherlock, keeping his word, clasped the cuff links into place. “Do I know him?”

 “Yes. Will you leave now?” he groaned.

 Sherlock frowned, and paced around the room, stopping to paw through the hamper. “Lestrade!” He yelped, turning an accusatory glare on his brother.

 Mycroft smirked, and adjusted his tie.

 “There is a hair on your shirt which is clearly not yours, and clearly not belonging to someone who did not lean over you.” Sherlock tapped his foot. “How long has this… this been going on?”

 “Five hours and thirteen minutes.” Mycroft replied, glancing at his watch.

 “You can’t just go around going on _dates_ with my… my friends.” Sherlock muttered.

 “Are you embarrassed? Or do your friends simply belong only to you? Ah, both.” Mycroft noted.

 Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “At least don’t wear that ghastly tie.”

\---

 John Watson had found a purpose in life again, preparation for the end. Once, he had barely enough interest in technology to update his blog, now, he learned ways to keep his online searches anonymous. He lurked, gleaning bits and pieces of gossip, or information, anything that could supplement the paltry information Lestrade provided him about Moriarty’s web. Methodically, he drilled himself as he had done in the Army, pushing his body to burn, to become stronger. He cleaned his gun, relishing the thought that his bullets would soon tear open criminal flesh, stop the hearts supplying blood to Moriarty’s legacy. He would avenge Sherlock, or die trying. If he succeeded… there would still be a bullet left for himself, but he would need to be patient. Stop Moriarty’s men. Restore Sherlock’s honor. Then, and only then, would he allow himself to rest; perhaps on Sherlock’s grave, yes, that is where he wanted to be when it happened.

 John startled as his phone chimed out. _Mary_. Somewhat guiltily, he let it go to voice mail. It was cowardly to avoid her… no, it was kind. She didn’t deserve to be caught up in this. It was better that she grew to hate him, than to have to grieve for yet another person. Mary didn’t love him. It was better that way.

\---

 Lestrade ordered a drink to calm his nerves. He’d had plenty of time to think, but he couldn’t predict how the night would go. Was Mycroft humoring him? Pitying him? Did he even fancy men at all? He didn’t have a wife, or children like Lestrade had. He was the last. The last of the Holmes family. He tried to imagine Mycroft and Sherlock’s mother, and found the thought absurd and impossible. Was she alive? Did she wish for grandchildren? If this led to anything, would Lestrade deny her of her grandchildren? The last. Sherlock, the baby, dead. His fault, and now, fancying her eldest. God help him. He was a father. If anything happened to one of his daughters- _pooled in his own blood, body twisted and  broken, John moaning, no, God, no, no, sobbing, screaming, clutching the limp body_ -he would kill the man responsible. He deserved it. If Sherlock’s mother lived, he’d welcome her to throttle him. If only he could have kept his girls with him, then maybe he’d be too busy to think like this-

“Gregory.” Mycroft sat opposite him. “You have excellent taste.” He offered a small smile. Something, Lestrade couldn’t tell what, was different about him, not casual, no, never casual, but not so stiff. In the candlelight, he noticed the reddish hue of Mycroft’s hair, the slivery tone of those blue eyes- oh, God help him. He _did_ fancy him. A _Holmes_.

 


	18. Chapter 18

“I believe that this evening will run considerably smoother if we are direct in our intentions.” Mycroft primly folded his hands as the waiter whisked away their menus.

 “Right.” Lestrade managed, feeling slightly more like he was conversing with the parents of his date rather than his date himself. No woman had ever been so direct with him. It was like… a business proposition, and the thought made him slightly queasy.

 “Do you remember the day that we met, Gregory?” Mycroft asked.

 “Of course I do. You came to collect Sherlock, strung out at a crime scene.” Lestrade frowned at the memory. Sherlock, sickly thin and ranting, dilated silver eyes reflecting the moonlight with a look of madness which only the purest of street drugs can gloss over a man’s pupils. Sherlock, speaking so quickly that he tripped over his words, and yet making more sense than anyone he’d spoken to on the case to that date, collapsing onto the grimy pavement and shaking as the convulsions threatened to make him swallow his own tongue, or bite it off.

 “I’ve never thanked you for that night, Gregory. He’d been missing for five months, stumbling through Europe, always just out of my grasp. That night, you didn’t just restrain him. You stayed with him, kept him from choking. You called the paramedics. You showed mercy to him, when anyone else would treat him as he appeared, a filthy madman, although you’d never met him.” Some vague emotion flickered somewhere deep behind Mycroft’s eyes, but it was difficult to place.

 “What else could I have done? He might have been a madman, true, but anyone could see that somehow, he knew what he was on about, and then… I had to.” He sighed. “Listen, please don’t thank me for anything. Not after what I’ve done to him.”

 Mycroft’s mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. “It shames me to say that I was the cause of it, Gregory. That is beyond the point. What I am implying is this: I am not here out of gratitude, although I feel it.

 The facts are thus: we have known each other for over six years, and yet you have never expressed an interest in knowing me on a personal level. I also know what you have been through in the past ten months. Every time you have looked over your shoulder, thinking that you were being watched, your instincts were correct. The night that Moriarty’s assassin attempted to murder you, I knew that what I had done had left a considerable impression on you. I wish to know if it is gratitude which prompted you to ask me here tonight, or if it is something more.”

 Lestrade took a deep breath. “Something more.” he confirmed. “Damned if I know what it is, but it’s not just gratitude. I don’t know what it is, really. I know enough to know that I’m glad that I asked, and I’m glad that you accepted.”

 This seemed to be enough for Mycroft. He grinned, in that smug way that Lestrade was almost sure that he wasn’t aware of, and accepted the wine bottle from the waiter graciously, pouring out two glasses. Lestrade took his glass with the slightest trepidation, for the wine list hadn’t bothered to list prices. He’d just have to sign the slip without reading it, then.

  “What I mean to say, is, well, that this is a date, isn’t it. If you’d like for it to be.” He turned a critical eye on Mycroft, wishing he knew the Holmesian trick of deduction.

 “You tell me.” Mycroft almost smirked. “You are the one who has never considered another man as a possible date before.”

 “I’m telling you _yes_.” Lestrade grumbled, reaching across the table to take Mycroft’s hand. It felt soft, yet firm, in his own. Capable, strong.  He rather liked it.

“Then my answer is also yes.” Mycroft’s pulse quickened under his finger. Lestrade almost laughed; he had made Mycroft Holmes nervous. Unbelievable.

  There was a lull in conversation as their meals arrived, which Lestrade was thankful for, as he hadn’t eaten since that morning. The portions were skimpy, in his estimation, but everything on his plate was delicious, which was more than he could say about the places he usually ate. He reminded himself to be on his best behavior. Work the silverware from the outside in- or was it the inside out? He watched Mycroft, and mimicked his movements.

 “You’re barely eating.” he noticed. “Are you all right?”

 Mycroft nodded, looking somewhat embarrassed. Lestrade bit his lip. Maybe he’d made some sort of social faux pas, barely chewing his food while Mycroft cut socially proper bites of his steak. Well, what was done was done. He took a roll from the bread basket for himself, and slid another onto Mycroft’s plate, as well. “Well, as long as we’re okay with each other, then.”

 “Oh, yes. More than all right.” Mycroft assured him.

 They finished the wine, and Mycroft called for another bottle. Lestrade raised his glass. He was going to enjoy this alcohol, damn it. It was nice, at least, how it made him feel, slowly, nicely drunk, stronger than beer, not as fast as liquor. Mycroft’s hair glowed in the candlelight, a slight flush across his cheeks from the wine was becoming apparent. Sherlock had had a bit of red in his hair, too, under sunlight-rather like a black cat’s fur- no, he wouldn’t do this to himself again. He was on a date with someone curiously charming, and he was going to enjoy his night. He reached again for Mycroft’s hand, and didn’t let it go until the bill arrived. He braced himself, but somehow, the two bottles weren’t charged. A quick glance at Mycroft revealed no suggestion of an answer. Lestrade decided that he didn’t need one, and signed off on the slip.

  “Walk with me.” He suggested, lacing his fingers into Mycroft’s. “It’s too early yet.” They stepped out into the cool spring air. Lestrade felt more cheerful than he had in months, and gave Mycroft’s hand a little squeeze.

 “There’s no cloud cover, how odd on a night like this.” Mycroft gazed upwards, allowing Lestrade to lead them. “It felt like rain.”

 “God’s pissed on me for months, he’s not going to ruin tonight for me.” Lestrade answered, and Mycroft blinked, giving him the oddest of looks, before they were both laughing.

 “Where are we going?” Mycroft asked, after a moment.

 “Nowhere, really.  I suppose you could come back to mine, for a bit, if you wanted…” Lestrade waited for an answer, but Mycroft didn’t give one, just kept hold of his hand and walked. Lestrade turned a corner, and made for his flat. He let go of Mycroft to fumble for his keys, and locked the door firmly behind them. When he glanced up, Mycroft’s eyes were gleaming, that same sort of predatory look he’d seen in that one dream… and then, Mycroft had him against the door, pressing him into a kiss. It was more of the same- soft, yet firm and strong, and his back arched into it. Fifteen months without a kiss. Eighteen months without sex. Mycroft Holmes, watching his every move for months, killer’s blood on his immaculate hands-it was as though a floodgate had opened.

 Mycroft’s hands were moving across his back, ghosting up and down in a way that made his hair stand on end. His knee pressed between Lestrade’s legs, and he found himself involuntarily rutting against it. Mycroft’s fingers gripped his arms, and pulled him across the room, never breaking the kiss. His fingers were undoing his shirt buttons, his belt buckle, and Lestrade’s fingers fumbled to do the same. He hissed in surprise and unexpected pleasure as Mycroft’s fingers roughly rubbed his nipples, the outtake of air swallowed again by Mycroft’s kiss. His trousers were down now, and Mycroft was lifting him- sprawled across the table, oh God- and more mindless, indescribably wonderful rutting before he squeezed the base of his cock, drawing him out. Dimly, he was aware of practiced hands stretching a condom over his hot flesh- _My God, he just takes whatever he wants, and it’s amazing_ -and his brain could only process the friction of their erections pressed tightly together by that perfectly manicured hand. Lestrade added his own to it, not caring how unfamiliar the sensation was because it felt so bloody good- and a moment later, an intense orgasm claimed his ability to think.

 Mycroft was breathing heavily as he came back to himself, clearly having had his own. His elegant fingers were deftly disposing of the condoms, another infinitely expensive handkerchief ruined by wiping the mess. “Come to bed.” Lestrade managed, leading the way on wobbly legs. He pushed back the duvet, and pulled Mycroft in after him, gripping him tight. “Brilliant, mad thing.” he whispered, allowing himself to be pulled into another deep kiss, although slower and lazier this time. The rush of the orgasm and the soft familiarity of the bed was conspiring with the wine, and it was hard to keep conscious. Even the warmth of Mycroft’s body was lulling him.

 Lestrade awoke with the merciless sunlight beating on his sensitive eyes. The wine had left a nasty ache, gripping his skull like a helmet. He reached out his hand, and was disappointed to find the other side of the bed cold.

 He blinked as his hand found a bit of paper in the sheets. A phone number, in neat handwriting, followed by a short note.

_No appointment. M_

“Typical bloody-rutting-fucking Holmes.” Lestrade sighed.


	19. Chapter 19

 Mycroft was drinking his morning coffee and flipping through the more frivolous and hideous of his weekend morning papers when Sherlock arrived, curls still ruffled from sleep, bare feet padding on the polished oak floor. His brother paused in the doorway, eyed him up and down, and, with a wrinkling of his nose and an audible _tisk_ of disgust and mock horror, shook his head before turning on his heel toward the kitchen. Mycroft chuckled to himself, and allowed himself a wry smirk as Sherlock returned with a steaming mug of tea in hand.

 “Aren’t you going to ask me how my evening went?” Mycroft couldn’t resist teasing his brother. It was quite incredible, the mood he was in today. For the first time in months, he was relaxed, and almost… _happy_. Almost.

 “No.” Again, a twitch of the nose, before rummaging through the papers and eating a piece of buttered toast off of Mycroft’s plate. “And if you tell me any detail that I’ve missed, I’ll never forgive you.”

 “I shall spare you, for now.” Mycroft replied. Sherlock sighed. He stabbed at a fragment of scrambled egg white, but didn’t seem interested in eating it.

 “Get a plate.” Mycroft swatted his hand away. “You should eat a proper breakfast once in awhile, anyway.” He peered over his paper. Sherlock’s eyes were troubled. He jabbed again at the bit of egg, a bit lifelessly this time.

 “Dear... did you dream again?” he asked, gently.  Sherlock’s head snapped up. His lips were pressed firmly together in that defiant frown he’d had as a boy, when he was too stubbornly proud to cry.

 “I watched him sleeping, after.” Sherlock admitted. “I counted his breaths for hours.” Sherlock pressed his palms into his temples, gripping at his hair, still jagged and uneven from the underside being shaved for stitches.

 “Sherlock…” Mycroft hesitated. “there is something we need to speak about. DI Lestrade-“ Sherlock raised his head, giving him a warning look-“- has been investigating your death on his own time. It seems as though he has, through diligent and slightly questionable methods, discovered the motive behind your apparent death. I’ve been informed that he has let John know this information.”

 Sherlock’s spine stiffened. “No… no. John is in danger.” He whispered. “He’ll try to- the _idiot_ \- both of them, idiots!“

 “Yes.” Mycroft replied, grimly. “We’ve lost the luxury of both caution and time, brother dear. Things will come to a head, and soon. I will do absolutely everything in my power to protect all of you, no matter the cost.”

\--

  Mary blinked sleepily as the telephone stirred her awake. She’d been dreaming of sirens. She squinted at the screen, but the number was blocked. Still too drowsy to think clearly, she answered with a mumbled hello.

 “Is this Mary Morstan?” The voice was polite, a soft female voice. It didn’t sound like a business call.

 “Speaking.” She replied, sitting up, with a small frown of confusion.

 “Ms. Morstan, please listen to me. I know this is going to sound… weird, but I promise you that this isn’t a joke, and it isn’t a threat. Well, it’s not a threat from me, I mean. There’s a… a bad man, a dangerous man, someone the police can’t catch, and your friends are worried about you. Everything will be okay, just… if you could leave town, just for a week or so. It would be good, I promise. I’ll let you know when it’s all right to come back again.”

 “Who is this?” she asked, sharply, her stomach suddenly in a tight knot.

 “I’m, um, I’m a friend.” The voice stumbled. “It’s going to be okay. Please, just go, just for a few days, it doesn’t matter where.”

The line dropped silent, and Mary pulled the blankets tight around her, mentally recounting having locked every door and window the night before. Hands shaking slightly, she dialed John’s number.

 It went to voice mail.

\--

  Mycroft startled as the door to his office opened unexpectedly. His hand was halfway to his gun when he saw that it was Gregory Lestrade.

 “It’s nice, not having to make an appointment. Makes me feel like the Queen.” Lestrade sat on the edge of the desk, and raked his fingers through Mycroft’s perfectly combed hair, loosening it into its natural waves as he pulled him into a kiss.  He was pleased to leave Mycroft breathless, and even temporarily speechless.

 “No regrets, I see.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

 “We’ll see about that. No more of those notes in my bed, alright?” He gave Mycroft a stern look, and the other nodded, looking oddly chastised.

 “I see that you have information for me.” Mycroft reached for the file at his side. Lestrade allowed the subject to drop, and handed the folder to him.

 “Information I’d rather you acted on, than John alone.” He confirmed. “John’s learned a lot from Sherlock. He’s gotten almost as much dirt on the slippery bastard as I have. We’re close.”

 “Closer than you think.” Mycroft confirmed. There were precious leads here, he could see, bits and pieces of trivia that bridged the gap in the narratives he and Sherlock had created out of shards of garbled data. He ached to tell Lestrade, or to call Sherlock in immediately, but of course he could do neither.

 “Speaking of the Queen…” he began. “Some people _do_ have appointments today. Might I make it up to you?”

Lestrade eyed him appraisingly. “You’d better.” He replied. “Call me, about this. Soon.” He added.

 Mycroft smiled that exhilarating, predatory smile, and stole another kiss as they neared the door. “I will.” He promised. He watched his hidden camera, waiting for the other man to clear the front entrance of the building before dialing Sherlock’s number.


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft set his phone down and sighed, leaning back against the comforting cushion of his favorite chair. His eyes flickered to the clock on the mantle- had he just wasted forty-eight frivolous minutes? To be fair, sixteen of those minutes were regarding Sebastian Moran- so, thirty two minutes of pleasantries, unguarded words, and goodbyes with Gregory Lestrade. It was the third time this week. How utterly odd of him. He drummed his fingers against the well worn leather beneath them.

  While he didn’t have much of a sex life compared to the national average, Mycroft’s needs were met often enough- and always with someone with an equal or greater reputation at stake. Mycroft Holmes would never be the subject of a scandal without causing the downfall of several European governments, and his partners were wise enough to know this, and act accordingly- for they required the same discreetness. To take someone as ordinary as Gregory Lestrade as a lover was carelessness- and yet… he trusted him. Sherlock trusted him. He’d been good to his brother, he was a good man. He was the foolish sort who would keep his word to someone under threat of death, because he was an honest man. Foolish, yes- but certainly not stupid. It would take someone clever indeed to corner a man like Lestrade in that way.  For all that Sherlock cared for the man, Mycroft was certain that he underestimated him.

 ---

 Sherlock, clad in layers of filthy cast off clothing, shuffled along the back streets of London, watching. Moran wasn’t alone in this, he had at least two men in his pay. The men were thugs, not trained fighters like Moran. They were muscle. Security. Expendable. He would need to see if there were more.

 He stumbled down the road, showing indifference to the world around him. A young couple crossed the street to avoid him. Into an alley to re-access his information, have a piss to stay in character… he was unbuttoning his trousers when a garish bit of paint caught his eye, on the pavement beneath his foot. _I believe in Sherlock Holmes._ Sherlock startled, and knelt. It was still there, dry paint, months old. Shaking his head in disbelief, he edged along the alleyway. Again and again he found the cryptic message, in marker, in paint, under and over a dozen other tags. He ran. Three blocks later, he stopped at the steps of an empty shop to let. On the stairs sat a girl, shorn brown hair and wary hazel eyes barely visible beneath a tattered blue blanket. She rose to her feet, ready to spring at the stranger if he came too close.

 “Theresa.” Sherlock pulled back his collar, and let the girl see his face. Her eyes widened- Sherlock always found this amusing, as they always somehow stayed in her head- and found himself grappled in an unexpected hug.

 “It’s really you.” The girl blubbered.

 “Yes.” Sherlock allowed the embrace; he smelled worse than she did, for once. “It was a trick.”

 “Clever you.” she smiled. She looked older, somehow- more than a year should have aged her, even out here.

 “Theresa, the graffiti. It’s everywhere. Who did this?” Sherlock gestured- it was there again, on the window, in silver marker.

  She shrugged. “Everyone.” She said. “Lots of people.”

  Sherlock blushed, thankful that she couldn’t tell in the dark corner. “Don’t let anyone outside of the usual people know that I’m back. It would mean my life, and John’s.” he whispered. “Will you watch this address and tell me absolutely everything?” he tore a sheet from his notebook, and thrust it into her hand with a crumpled fifty pound note- _girls have it worse on the street than the men do_ , he’d reasoned to John the first time he had seen exactly how much money he was slipping into her cup.  It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“’Course I will.” She tucked it into her jacket, and began to gather up her meager possessions.

 Sherlock nodded in thanks, and continued on. With the odd shock of the graffiti and his network in operation again, he felt a warmth in his chest, a confidence he hadn’t felt in months. Dawn was breaking over London. Cars and busses began to appear. Neon signs dimmed in the gray light. Commuters in dark clothing sipped lattes and fussed with their phones. In the daytime, this disguise would soon be more of a distraction than he’d want- but he wasn’t ready to retreat, not quite yet. He needed to see Baker Street, perhaps a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson fetching coffee from the café with her morning papers, just a reassurance that she was all right.

 He was nearly three blocks away when he saw something that sparked his desire more than the sight of his home. _John._

 Some part of Sherlock’s brain was aware that he was playing a dangerous game. He struggled to obey its orders to retreat, but the pull of his want proved to be too strong. John was paying for a coffee, counting out his change as he shifted to the side for a woman to pull down a newspaper and reach for a pack of chewing gum. Sherlock was so close that he could smell him; his strong soap and the unmistakable scent of John’s freshly scrubbed skin beneath. Sherlock breathed it in, feeling a small twinge of pleasure in his groin as the blood began to pool between his legs.

 John took his coffee, and turned; knocking his elbow into Sherlock as he did so.

 Sherlock hid his face, and muttered an apology. John blotted at the coffee dribbling down his arm, and exclaimed an apology of his own. Sherlock was gone seconds later, cursing himself.


	21. Chapter 21

It was a year to the day.

 Sebastian Moran set his foot on the ledge, and peered down at the pavement. He spat over the side, and crouched down, squinting through the crosshairs. He fired.

\--

It was a year to the day.

John Watson awoke with a throbbing pain in his leg and an ache in his chest.

_I have to go to the grave._

John found that he was unable to move, as though an invisible weight had pinned his limbs to the bed.

_Roses for him today, a dozen red. Would you like that, love? God help me, Sherlock. Of course you wouldn’t care. They all said it would get better with time, but it never does, does it? I don’t think it ever will. Sherlock, help me. I’m growing weaker every day. I have to be strong, for your sake._

John drew in a deep breath, and swung a leg over the side of the bed.

_\--_

It was a year to the day.

Sherlock Holmes vowed to himself that he will not, _cannot_ live another day without John Watson by his side.  “I have to move, before he changes location again.”

“I won’t let you go alone.” Mycroft’s voice was soft, yet commanding. He rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It’s legwork.” muttered Sherlock.

“I’m bringing at least five men, more if I can.” Mycroft added.

Sherlock bowed his head, not able to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Thank you, dearest brother.”

\--

It was a year to the day.

Greg Lestrade felt terribly empty. He tapped the screen of his phone, and gazed wistfully at Mycroft’s name, before shaking his head and sliding it back into his pocket. Today was a private day, too sacred and sad to intrude on.

\--

**_Detective Inspector, you have five hours to redeem your traitor soul for the murder of Sherlock Holmes. Five hours to save John Watson, before you both die. Catch me if you can.  SM_ **

 Sebastian closed his phone and cracked his knuckles. Such elaborate tactics were not his style, but if nothing else, Jim would have been proud.

\--

  John placed the roses on the tombstone, noting with pride that it was the best kept grave in the cemetery. He chuckled to himself at the odd, petty thought, and knelt, brushing the golden letters free of any trace of dirt with a tissue from his pocket.

 “These are for you, Sherlock.” He pressed his lips against the letters, waiting to feel the cold stone absorb the heat of his lips before withdrawing. “As pretty as you were, love, no, not quite.” He whispered, the words catching in his throat. He would never, ever have the courage to say something so florid and ridiculous to Sherlock when he was alive, but Sherlock wasn’t there to say what he could or could not do, was he? “Sherlock, I promise you, I will stop this, and I will follow you. I’m so close-“

“Closer than you think, mate.” John’s spine stiffened, as he felt the barrel of a gun press against the back of his head. Instinctively, he raised his hands, and bit his lip as a cloth was forced against his face, the pressure of the gun never leaving.

  ---

  Lestrade’s heart thundered in his chest as his bullet tore through the thug’s flesh, sending him stumbling backward before crouching over in pain and shock. This was insane, a part of him knew. He was on a vigilante spree, and if he got out of this alive, his respectable life and career, what was left of it, anyway, were over. It was a trap, but knowing that John was in the hands of that madman- what else could he do? Loyal, brave John, who would do the same for him, even without the debt that Lestrade owed him.

  He could hear footsteps, two pairs running towards him, drawn by the sound of the shot. Lestrade darted behind a steel crate, and readied his gun. He braced himself; he would be the one to fire first.

  Sherlock skidded to a halt, eyes widening as he saw Lestrade. “STOP!” he called.

  The shout was enough to break Lestrade out of his stupor. “Do you think that I would?” he asked, quietly lowering his weapon. Sherlock held his arms wide as though to block something, someone behind him, and a moment later, the second pair of footsteps brought into view Mycroft Holmes. His eyes were blazing with protective fury, fiercer than what Lestrade had dreamt of. It was then that he understood- Sherlock’s shout had not been meant for him.

  “You knew.” Lestrade turned to Mycroft, struggling to contain his anger. “You’re wondering if I’m surprised to see Sherlock, aren’t you, but I’m not, not really. I’m surprised to see you. I’m surprised that you think so little of me that you let me walk into this powder keg for your brother and for John, when he was somehow alive the whole bloody time.”

 Sherlock winced, but did not speak.

 “I did not ask you to come here.” Mycroft seethed.

 “Oh, I know. Sebastian Moran did, under threat of death. Not exactly something I was about to blow off for the football. You’re a right bastard, hell, the both of you are, for what you did to all of us, and you- lying to me while shagging me. Un-fucking-believable. You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself.”

 Lestrade’s anger was doused with a chill as Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, and regarded him with a mixture of distain and distance, before looking away from him as though he were as insignificant as a speck of dust. Something had snapped in that moment, and Mycroft Holmes was no longer the man he’d shared his bed with. Lestrade knew in a terrible instant that he was no longer anything to the other man.

“Go back. Please.” Sherlock’s bony hands gripped his shoulder. “This isn’t your fight, I need for you to be safe.”

 “Moran’s made it my fight.” _And I have a debt to you for saving me_. Lestrade was too angry to say it, but he could not forget it.

  Sherlock sighed, a short huff of breath. “We’ve dealt with two of them, so far, and yours makes three. My sources say there are two more. Let’s stick together.”

  Lestrade nodded, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t afford to think about this here, not until they’d made it out alive.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

 John awoke with his head faintly throbbing. The ground beneath him was hard and cold, and his arms were tingling, tied above his head. His eyelids twitched, adjusting to the harsh electric lights above.

 “You’re a light sleeper.” a rough voice commented. John opened his eyes fully. He was in some sort of warehouse, steel crates and ceilings at least fifty feet high. The man across from him looked vaguely familiar, perhaps a few years older than John himself. He was tall and trim, sandy blond hair and piercing blue eyes above a faint pink scar that ran from the corner of his eye to his earlobe, of which a sliver was gone.

 “Sebastain Moran, I assume.” John’s voice was flat.

 “You assume correctly.” The man eyed him, up and down, as though he were considering what to do next. John didn’t like that. He’d much rather be shot point blank than toyed with.

 “Why haven’t you killed me, then?” John raised his head. “I know that you mean to.”

 “True, and you mean to kill me.” Sebastian noted the mild surprise in John’s eyes. “Oh, I know how you think, brother, because we think alike.”

 “Like hell we do.” John growled.

 “We have more in common than you’d like to admit.” Sebastian’s voice lowered. “You want to die. You are nothing, now, without your precious detective. I’m doing you a favor. “

 John felt a chill in his stomach. He hated that Moran could read his miserly so clearly. “So, then, you want to die, as well.” He concluded.

 Sebastian barked out a short laugh. “I will, a moment after you do.”

“Because of Moriarty.” John replied, gambling that the name alone would be a weapon against the other man.

 “What do you think?” Sebastian grinned. “I died a long time ago, mate, and you of all people should understand that. Our little adventures, you and I, just delayed the inevitable. Did he find you broken and discarded, no longer fit to serve? Did he take you in, build you up to feel like a man again?” John flinched, trying to mask any emotions the words brought to him. “No place to go, so you find a little hole to curl up and die in, like the animal you are. I know you did, because I did, too; and that’s when he found you, isn’t it. Oh, I know the story, damn well, I do. And you thought he was some sort of savior, didn’t you, but he wasn’t, now was he. He was a hellcat! With venomous claws and teeth, and he sank them right into you, and before you know it you’re infected!”

He crossed the few feet between them, and took John’s chin in his hands. John’s spine stiffened as Sebastian traced the barrel of his gun along John’s cheek, and settled on his lips.

 “You thought you had a new life, but it was all a fever dream. You were just his dog.” He pushed the barrel into John’s mouth, pushing it back until he almost gagged, and drawing it out almost completely before gliding it in again.  Terror and humiliation warred inside of John, but he would not show it.

 “ _He_ left you.” Sebastian withdrew the gun, and knelt closer, to meet John’s eyes directly. “He left me. And now, I’m going to put you out of your misery, and then, myself. We’ll walk side by side into Hell and take back what’s rightfully ours.”

 “Don’t delude yourself.” John whispered. “There’s always something to live for.” Lies he repeated from Ella.

 “You don’t have a damn thing left.” Sebastian countered. “I told you, didn’t I, that I’d steal your girl.” His face curled into a cruel smile, and John felt ill. “You- all this time.” His thoughts were frantically racing. “What did you do to her, you… monster!” he fought against the knot, despite knowing that it would only bind the knot tighter, scraping his skin raw.

 “I took the liberty of eliminating whatever would hold you back, mate. I did you a _favor_. I had myself a bit of an autopsy, as well. You would have named the brat after _him_ , wouldn’t you?”

 John lost all coherence, and began to thrust and scream, any obscenity that entered his mind. He could feel the blood trickling down his arms, thick and hot, the tears blinding him as he helplessly thrashed.

 He heard shouts then, and gunfire. Sebastian raised his head, looking as though he was expecting the disturbance, indeed, the masochistic grin never leaving his face. John twisted his head, and caught sight of Lestrade- and behind him, Mycroft, and … Sherlock. A battered, paler, somewhat thinner Sherlock, but nonetheless, not an illusion.

 Sherlock barreled forward towards Sebastian, bloody murder in his eyes.

 “Take him alive!” shouted Lestrade over the din. “We need-“

 Two thugs grappled Sherlock by the shoulders, and he cursed, hurling one across the room before being brought down to the concrete by the other.

  Sebastian pointed the gun at John’s heart, and smiled. John let out a small cry of frustration- and somehow, Mycroft was between them, with more speed and agility than John could ever imagine him possessing. He grappled the larger man, and, struggling and horrified, John watched the tussle end with a muffled shot, as a bullet ripped through Mycroft’s abdomen.

 There were men everywhere, shouting, fighting, and John could no longer tell who was on his side, or against him; who was wounded, nor who was standing, could no longer hear anything for the screams that pierced the air. He would later realize that the screams were his own.

 


	23. Chapter 23

 When John regained awareness, he was in a hospital bed, his arms buckled down against the mattress. His wrists were bandaged, and his throat was sore.

 “John?” He blinked. ‘Anthea’ waited by his bedside. She looked impeccable as ever, not a hair out of place, and yet her eyes were swollen and red.

 “Where-?” he found that he couldn’t manage more than that. Where was he, where were _they_ , what and why and _how_ -

  “We’re at St. Bart’s.” she replied. “Two wings have been sectioned off, and the most capable doctors in the western world are en route or here already.” She unbuckled the strap. “I’m sorry, they had to.” She adjusted the bed, helping him sit. “They gave you a sedative.”

 “Yeah, I can feel it.” John rubbed his temples, attempting to clear it of the fog. Horrors began to resurface in his mind. “Mycroft-“

 “He is in the intensive care unit, undergoing emergency surgery.” She replied, her voice strained. “Two of our men sustained substantial wounds, but are in no immediate danger. Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mr. Holmes- your Mr. Holmes- have sustained superficial wounds. I have authorized clearance for unlimited visitation.”

 “Sherlock.” John could feel nothing for a moment but confusion, then joy, cut short by anger. “Let me see him, please.” He struggled up, but she placed a gentle hand on his knee. “Stay, I’ll send for him.” John felt a pang of sympathy as he watched her go; the small, efficient woman who was now bearing the weight of the entire British government on her shoulders.  

And then- he was there, in the doorway. His miracle.

 Sherlock was shaking, as he turned his tear-stained face to John. “May I come in?” he asked, quietly.

 John nodded, and Sherlock crossed the room in two quick strides, sinking onto the bed beside John, and gingerly placing a hand on his shoulder. John raised his own hand to Sherlock’s cheek, and was stunned to find it realistic to the touch, and not an illusion. His fingers were wet with Sherlock’s tears, and John found that he was crying, as well. Unable to control himself, he gripped Sherlock tight; and Sherlock responded in turn, clutching John so that it felt he might bruise from it. John could feel Sherlock sniffling into his hair as he breathed in the tight space under Sherlock’s chin. They rocked together in silence, the gulps and short gasps that came from trying to suppress their tears the only sound. After a long space of time, which was not quite long enough, they separated.

 “John-“ Sherlock began, and paused.

“Sherlock-“ and John sighed, feeling too weak to begin to say the hundreds of things which needed to be said.

 “I’m sorry.” Sherlock whispered.

 John bit his lip.

“I need to explain-“

“You did it to save me, I know.” John felt as though his voice belonged to someone else, as though he were reciting the events of another person’s story. “But, Sherlock-“

“It wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. I didn’t have time to-“ and Sherlock broke into a new round of tears, looking more helpless and terrified than even the most dreaded confession to John should have brought on.

 “Sherlock. Shh.” John stroked back his unruly curls, concern coloring his tone. “What is it, now?”

 “He _can’t_ die!” Sherlock practically howled into John’s gown. _Oh._

 “Shh, Sherlock, help is here, and more on the way. The best surgeons in the world.” John prayed that he was right; recalling the sight of the wound- it was impossible for him to tell, at that distance and angle, precisely where Mycroft had been wounded, and to what extent. He rubbed his hand in circles against Sherlock’s back. To confront Sherlock in such a state was pointless, and John wondered if part of him, a tiny part, resented that fact. It didn’t change the fact that he would be dead if not for Mycroft Holmes, and so he refused to resent it, not right away.

  Sherlock’s hysteria eventually subsided, and still, John held him.

 “Our father was MI6.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled by John’s shoulder, until he tilted his head upwards. “He was killed by the KGB, a sniper, he didn’t see it coming. He was just, just standing there.” Sherlock took in a shuddering breath. “I told Mycroft not to accept the MI6 position. I was so afraid that-“

“Shh, it’s all going to be all right, Sherlock.”

“He wasn’t supposed to have to _do_ things like this anymore, and he did it because of _me_ , and he _can’t_ die!” Sherlock choked, and John patted his back. Sherlock’s bony fingers dug into his back, and John gripped him tighter.

 A nurse arrived, and gently pried Sherlock from John’s grip. “I’m going to give you something to calm you down.” She said, and John nodded, prodding Sherlock toward her. Reluctantly, Sherlock let her take his arm, and trembled as she administered an injection, and offered him a paper cup of water, which he swallowed in two gulps.

 “Can he stay here tonight?” he asked the nurse, and she nodded.

 “If it will keep him calm.” She pulled the other bed from across the room, and eased Sherlock into it. Sherlock’s eyes were already looking glazed, and he was put into the bed without much of a struggle. The nurse then looked to John. “Would you like a little something to help you sleep it off, love?” she asked, sympathetically.

 John nodded. “Please.” She left the room, and came back with a tiny wax paper cup containing a small white pill. _Zolpidem?_ John guessed, but swallowed it without asking for clarification.  Sherlock was already unconscious, and John’s last hazy thought before his eyes closed was how very, very angry and betrayed he felt, and yet how utterly grateful. It was too much to comprehend at once, and the blissful stillness the drug brought to his sleep was, he later thought, probably all that kept him sane.


	24. Chapter 24

 Lestrade was tired of pacing. He sat, head in hands, waiting, dreading. He knew that he needed to sleep; instead, he sipped at a stale coffee and waited, not daring to close his eyes.  His head and neck ached from stress and fatigue, and several times through the night, his chest tightened in physical pain. He wondered if he ought to say something, but what could be done? If he were to collapse from stress induced cardiac arrest, he reasoned, at least he was already in a hospital.

  _He would go and get himself shot at a time like this,_ Lestrade thought, bitterly. Mycroft was so powerful that it seemed almost believable that he could control the events of the universe , bending them to his will so that the knife of guilt in Lestrade’s chest was twisted just that little bit more. The fact that this thought was unreasonable and impossible did not keep Lestrade from pondering it.  _Don’t die, not until I’ve had a chance to take it back. Just don’t die, you bastard._

\--

Sherlock was still sleeping when John’s bladder forced him awake. On his way back to his bed, he paused before Sherlock, watching the rise and fall of his chest, proof of his breathing. John sighed. How many nightmares had he endured, seeing Sherlock’s beautiful pale skin and bright eyes devoured by maggots?  How could he forgive the man for torturing him, and yet, how could he not? His miracle. John sighed again, and sat, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own.

 Sherlock’s eyes slit open, and focused on John. John watched him watching him, before letting out a shaking breath. “Okay. Explain. Everything.”

  Sherlock sat up, and rubbed his palm against his face. “All right, John.” He said, quietly. “I knew that I couldn’t win against Moriarty in England. He had turned everything, everyone, against us. I needed time. I thought that I would fake my own death, give us time, get the police away from us. I asked Molly to help me-“

 “Molly Hooper knew, and not me.” John crossed his arms. “This needs some more explaining, Sherlock, and you had better make it convincing.”

 “I told you, it wasn’t supposed to play out this way.” Sherlock shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t fake it for both of us. It was complicated enough for one. People owe me favors… a lot of people, John, who would be dead or incarcerated if not for my work. I called those favors in. I had arranged the call about Mrs. Hudson-“ At this point, John let out a low, nonverbal sound which Sherlock associated with the precious few moments before those arguments when John stormed off for a night- “I’m sorry, I am. So sorry, John. I was going to make Moriarty think that I had died, and then I was going to come for you, tell Mrs. Hudson everything, and take you off to France, where I know that we could hide until I’d come up with something. Only, when I got to the rooftop, he was a step ahead of me. He had snipers set on you, as you know. You, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson- John, it was too much to risk. I begged for a moment, I made myself cry, look pathetic enough so that he would grant it to me, and gloat. I used that moment to send the texts to carry out my orders, and to set the phone to record. I was still thinking of ways to outwit him, but then- John, he killed himself, just to get the last word. He died so that I would die, or lose everything. I thought that I did lose everything in that moment.” Sherlock swallowed, and took a deep breath.

 “There was nothing for it but to let my plan play out. Instead of convincing Moriarty, I had to convince his snipers. That was when I saw you.” Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed. “I didn’t have enough time, John. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

 John’s mouth was set in a grim, tight line, his fists clenched.

 “Molly and I had made a decoy from a corpse. I had arranged it earlier, when I was planning on only staging it for Moriarty, for people who I trusted and who owed me, to crowd the street. They were to obscure the sight of anyone who wasn’t part of the trick. You weren’t supposed to be there to see it happen. I had to keep your eyes away from the decoy, until you could be distracted- I’m afraid that the man who obscured your sight caused you considerable pain, for which I apologize. I jumped, landing safely in a bin I had arranged, while Molly dropped the decoy from the second floor. By the time you got to me, I had replaced the decoy under the cover of the crowd. I had taken a squash ball from Stamford’s desk at Bart’s, which I used to subdue my pulse. It was convincing enough, so long as you, or anyone not involved in the ruse, didn't get too close. Molly was able to get me away before that could happen. A few more favors called in, and Molly’s signature, and I was officially dead. ” Over the course of the dialogue, Sherlock had gone from a frown of regret, to a smile of smug satisfaction, reveling in his clever plan.

 It was John’s snapping point. Without warning, he hauled his fist back, and brought it down on Sherlock’s cheek.

 “So. So, you say, dozens of strangers, who you had no bond with but gratitude for your cleverness, and Molly Hooper, were worthy of your trust, but I wasn’t. I was your _partner_ , Sherlock. Do you even know what that means? Had you forgotten that I fought with you, side by side, for months, faced down Moriarty, with you, together, and was willing to die with you to see the job done? Have you forgotten that we were in this together? Did you think that I couldn’t hold my own in a fight, or keep your secret, or be your equal? Because you _destroyed_ me, Sherlock! I wanted to die. I thought about it, every damn day. Do you know how many pills I swallowed because of you? Do you know how many roses I left on your sham of a grave? Do you even care about that, or are you too self involved to care? So, you’ve proven that you’re clever, good job. I hope that you’re _damn_ happy now!”

 John’s voice had risen in volume and pitch, until it was an angry, manic cry that Sherlock had never heard before.  

 “John- It wasn’t that, not at all.” Sherlock’s cheek was beginning to bruise, and he rubbed it carefully.

 John dove for him, fists flailing. Sherlock tumbled, unable to break John’s grip, his arm choking off Sherlock’s air.

 “I-thought-you would-let-me-EXPLAIN!” Sherlock choked out, wrestling away at last.

 “I said _explain_ , not gloat!” John growled.

 “Moriarty knew! He knew that I needed you, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He didn’t know that Molly would help me. He thought- because- because I was so terrible to Molly-“ Sherlock scrambled to his feet. “I needed _time_ , John. I didn’t know a thing about the snipers. They could have been anywhere, anybody. Playing dead called them off, long enough for me to find them. They could have killed you and the others before I had even washed the blood off of myself.  If the snipers had been stopped that day, John, there were dozens of others who could have, would have filled their shoes, if they knew that I was alive. There were so many people who could possibly kill you, and I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t live without you, especially you, John-“

 “And you thought that I could live without you. You thought it was just fine to leave me in a state like that, did you?” John demanded.

 “I thought that you could, yes.” Sherlock whispered. “And I thought that it would be easier, faster, to bring down Moriarty’s web than it was.”

  “You thought that it would be faster and easier without my hindrance.” John snarled.

 “John-“

 “Don’t, Sherlock.” John stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.


	25. Chapter 25

 “I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.” Jenna frowned, regretting the evening she volunteered to supervise the day shift for the VIP patients. It involved so much tedious paperwork, and meetings with security, and as for the patients themselves- they were absolutely barking mad, with the exception of this Mr. Holmes- and that was most likely because he’d been unable to be difficult, being unconscious and all. She’d been told that they were important government people, but they certainly didn’t _look_ official. They were allowed to come and go where they shouldn’t be able to, and not being able to put them in their proper places was maddening. “I’ll go and check.” She excused herself, mentally calculating the shift deferential.

  Mycroft was tempted to sigh, but knew that it would hurt to do so, even with the high concentration of painkillers coursing through his veins. He had been lucky, or so he had been told- the bullet had clipped his liver and shattered a rib, the shards of which had lodged in his colon and abdominal wall, causing internal bleeding which he was glad that he didn’t remember.  Idly, he wondered how long he would be allowed opiates. He was likely to change his mind about being lucky without them.

  A moment later, he felt a familiar, soft hand lacing through his own fingers. “I’m here, sir.” Mycroft curled his fingers tighter.  “Your brother and Dr. Watson are safe, no serious wounds or complications.”

 “Thank you, my dear.” He managed. He trusted only so much information from the nurses, but now, he felt as though he could rest. “Stay with me?”

 “Of course, sir.”

\--

 John pushed open the swinging double doors of the morgue and stalked down the hallway to the lab. “Molly.”

 The accused straightened her spine and gazed forward at him, her lips pressed tight, and her eyes defiant.  “I’m sorry that I let you suffer. He needed me, and you would have done the same, don’t you dare say that you wouldn’t.” she blurted.

 John stopped in his tracks, taken aback by Molly’s assertiveness, and the bluntness of her words. She was right, she owed him nothing more than she owed anyone else, her loyalty was always to Sherlock, and always would be. It still stung. He let out a shaking breath, and clenched and unclenched his hands, shaking them in frustration.

 “I wanted to tell you, I did. Sherlock… he… oh, God, he suffered, please believe me. I saw it with my own eyes. I’m sorry.” Molly reached a hand to rest on his shoulder, and John angrily drew it back.

 “Stop apologizing. I’m sick of people apologizing as though-“ _as though ‘sorry’ would have made a difference, if I had been drunk enough to actually fire my gun one of those hundred or so times when it all seemed too much to bear._

 “I’m sorry. I mean, no, I’m not, I mean-“ Molly drew in a deep breath. “I’m not against you. Please. I want to make it up, or at least try, because I know that you can’t just make up something like this to someone. I _know_. But I want to try, because we were wrong, even if we did it for the right reasons.”

 John nodded. “I can’t forgive you, not yet. I’ll try.” Jesus, he sounded like such a petty wanker. Molly just nodded, though, and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

 “Can I do anything for you, though?” she asked, shyly.

 John bit his lip, and nodded. “Yeah, I think that you can. Can you tell me… did… did Mary Morstan wind up here?”

 “Oh, God, I… she did. I- I’m so sorry.”

 “Stop saying-“ John paused, when he noticed that Molly was sniffling, and blinking back tears. “Molly-“

 “I- we- tried to warn her. It just happened too fast. Sherlock called me and said that his brother said that he saw that Greg was being threatened because he’d tapped him I mean his phone and, and he said to call Mary and tell her to go but he thought a man might scare her so _I_ called and-“ Molly’s words tumbled over each other, John comprehending bits and pieces.

 “Sherlock knew about Mary?”  The uncertain twinge of guilt in his stomach had returned, somehow, to squabble with his other emotions.

 Molly nodded. “He was afraid that she would be hurt. We tried. She was going to go the next morning to Aberdeen. His brother saw that she’d bought a ticket online.”

 “Let me see her?” John’s voice cracked, and Molly, after a moment of hesitation, nodded.

“Give me a few minutes.” She went into the next room, and John could hear the shuffle of papers, the opening and closing of doors. Finally, she wheeled out the corpse- the corpse of the girl he was almost certain that he loved, (yet hated himself for not being certain) and paused with her hand over the sheet.

 “ I don’t think it’s a good idea to do this to yourself.”  she warned.

 John swallowed, and shook his head. He was a doctor and a soldier, and he had lived through Sherlock’s blood on him (although, he thought angrily, it likely hadn’t even been his blood.) “I just want to say goodbye to Mary and the baby.” He pulled back the corner of fabric covering her face, and traced a finger down her cheek. This was somehow his fault, he knew, but he hadn’t yet decided how, or in how many ways he was to blame.

 “I’m sorry- baby?” Molly asked. “Whose baby?”

 “Mary’s baby.” He managed. “Our baby.”

 “There wasn’t any baby.” Molly said, quietly. “I would know, I did the autopsy myself.”

 “There has to be-“ John pulled back the sheet, and searched the smooth skin of Mary’s abdomen, marked only by Molly’s precise incisions.

 “Did… did she say there was one?” Molly asked, cautiously.

 “No.” John replied. “He did. Moran. He said-“ John shook his head. “Where is that bastard now? Is he dead?”

 “Prison, I guess.” Molly shrugged. “Greg said he was alive when the MI6, or whoever they were, brought him in. I’m sure we’ll hear about it soon.”

 John nodded, and gave Mary’s body one last sad glance before turning his back. “I need to go and get a coffee or something. Thank you.” He really didn’t feel like thanking her, but it would be rude not to, and John still had personal standards to uphold.


	26. Chapter 26

When Mycroft awoke, he found Sherlock asleep in the chair beside him, resting his head and folded arms on the bed. He pushed back his brother’s ragged curls, amused by the way that his nose twitched at the action. After a moment, his eyes blinked open, and he sat up.

 “I don’t mind, brother dear.” Mycroft spoke in French, setting the tone for a more intimate talk.

 “You were so pale.” Sherlock answered, uncomfortably; although he seemed relieved to be able to abandon English for the moment.

 “It’s to be expected. I’m alive, and recovering. You are safe, John is safe; it is over. I don’t regret it.” Mycroft smiled, despite the pain. “You can go home now.” Sherlock looked away, and then down at his folded hands. “Sherlock-“

“Don’t ever die.” Sherlock’s voice wavered slightly, but he said the words with the tone and force of a serious demand as he finally locked eyes with his brother.

 “Sherlock, you know that it is in my own best interests to stay alive, but I cannot promise-“

 “Then promise me that you’ll let me go first.” Sherlock snapped. “You are the strong one. I can’t manage without you.” He looked defeated and embarrassed by the confession, but Mycroft only nodded. It was a confession that was likely to be forgotten or retracted in the near future, anyway.

 “You shall always have John to help you to be strong.” Mycroft reminded him.

  “I don’t even know if I have him or not right now.” Sherlock bit his lip, and then sighed. “Brother, what you did for John-“

 “John belongs to the family now.” Mycroft patted Sherlock’s hand. “A wound to John is a wound to you, and I will never let that happen in my presence.”

 Sherlock nodded. “My debt has increased.” He sighed.

 “You will be hearing about it, when I need your expertise.” It was both a jest and a promise, for the idea of a debt was often the only way to attain his brother’s help once he was fascinated by his latest client.

 “Shall I have to log my hours, or would my first born be payment enough?” Sherlock huffed.

 “I rather like the latter.” Mycroft grinned. “Provide me with a niece or a nephew, and we might call it even. Perhaps I’ll give you a line of credit if the child is as patient and well behaved as John.”

  Sherlock made a small, noncommittal sound in response.

 “Go home, dear; after Mrs. Hudson’s initial scolding, the atmosphere will do you good.”

 “Have you seen Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, and the unexpected mention of the man made Mycroft flinch, and wish that he hadn’t as a sudden stab of pain pierced his abdomen.

 “No.”

 “He’s outside, you know.”

 “Why should I care where he sits?”

 “I’m remembering this, the next time you accuse me of being childish.” Sherlock pulled the covers over him. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

\--

 Mary had no family but a half sister, who turned up to handle the funeral arrangements and exchange awkward condolences with John and several of Mary’s friends. The funeral was short and simple, textbook, cookie-cutter hymns and the same generic script that the Church of England had used to usher hundreds of thousands of unremarkable people to the hereafter. John felt that she deserved more, but had no idea as to what he could do to improve matters, so he simply stood by the edge of the raw grave until well after everyone else had left- everyone but Sarah, bless her. She stood a few respectful paces behind him, but didn’t attempt to interfere with his supposed deep thoughts. The sad truth was that he wasn’t thinking deep thoughts, but was thinking that he was inconveniencing his well meaning friend by making her wait for him in the chill and the rain, and so he turned with a sigh, and went to her.

 “Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” she asked, quietly. “We’ll get something nice to eat.”

 John nodded. “Thanks. It’s just _-“ that I can see Sherlock’s plot from here, and I shouldn’t be thinking of him at Mary’s funeral, but I always was thinking of him when I was with her anyway, and Mary deserved better because she was so nice and fun and smart and perfect, and I am a lousy excuse for a human being and it is all my fault that he killed her and -_

 “I know. I’m sorry.” Sarah sniffled, and rubbed at her nose awkwardly with her sleeve. “Let’s get out of this rain, and I’ll make us some cocoa to start.”

\--

 Sherlock tried his key in the door. It fit. He had never considered that the house at Baker Street had its own unique smell, but the scent hit him as soon as he opened the door. Indescribable. Home. He felt his chest swell with gratitude.

 He hung his wet coat on its hook, and wiped his feet. There was a light on in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, and in the sitting room beyond. Taking a deep breath to quell the sudden feeling of dread in his gut, he approached the door.

 “Mrs. Hudson-“ he placed a hand on her shoulder, triggering an alarmingly rapid chain of events. Mrs. Hudson startled, and dropped her tea cup, which shattered into fragments and pooled an amber puddle on the gold linoleum. She let out a yelp that became a scream as she turned, and Sherlock felt a sharp stinging pain as she slapped his cheek, before pulling him down with a surprisingly strong grip into a fierce hug.

 “ _Sherlock!_ You dreadful-”

“Mrs. Hudson, I-“

“How _could_ you play such a nasty trick? Do you even _know_ what you’ve done to poor John? And you haven’t been eating- Oh, my _baby_!”

Sherlock gripped her tightly in return.

\--

 “-and that’s why I don’t deserve to live on the same planet as nice people like you.” John concluded, managing another bite of curry which he didn’t feel like eating; but suspected that he might be able to dull his sorrows with.

 “Jesus.” Sarah managed. “John, look. I know that you and Sherlock lead risky lives. You didn’t exactly try to hide that from me. It’s only natural that you’d make enemies. You couldn’t have known. You can’t just blame yourself for the actions of a psychopath.”

 “I hid it from Mary.” He frowned. “ _You_ had a choice. You saw what I did with my spare time, and you decided that you’d take the risk and still talk to me. With Sherlock gone… she thought that sort of life was behind me. I never told Mary when I found out the truth about Moran being alive and after me. I was too obsessed with killing him, before he’d kill me. All I could think of was Sherlock. I ignored her at the end, I was awful. I should have warned her. I should have sent her away.”

 “But your friend warned her, didn’t she, and it didn’t help- which is why you can’t do this to yourself, John. I’m sure you made mistakes, but you haven’t been the same since Sherlock-“

 “It’s normal to be a bit depressed after seeing your best friend commit suicide with your own eyes.” John sulked.

 “No, John, not ‘depressed’. It was more than that. You just weren’t yourself, it’s hard to explain. I was afraid for you, but I didn’t know what to do. The kind of stress you were under must have been… you know, I meant to help you, by introducing you to Mary. It was good, for awhile.”

 “It was.” John mused, sadly.

 “But would you blame me for her death, because I introduced her to you?”

 “No. Of course not. That’s different, though.” John shook his head. “God, I just don’t know anymore. I need another drink.” He opened another lager and drank most of the bottle without tasting it.


	27. Chapter 27

“You’re not supposed to be down here alone.” Dimmock remarked, falling into step beside Lestrade.

Lestrade shrugged. “I really don’t think that I care anymore.” The past week was a blur to him. He was vaguely aware of his bruises and stitches. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten solid food, and he had only taken a shower once he’d discovered that he had to peel the bloodied, filthy clothing from his skin in order to change into his uniform. He was still miserable about Mycroft declining to see him, when by all rights he thought he should feel annoyed. He’d stumbled to the Yard as soon as Dimmock had called, desperate to feel useful.

 “Wouldn’t it have been safer to give me the files in my office, though? You can’t just go into lockdown…” Dimmock looked doubtful. A large part of him still felt under-qualified, and he just couldn’t wrap his head around being Lestrade’s superior.  “If what you say is true, we don’t want it to look underhand in any way. After what’s happened with you, we’re under the kosh to play by the rules. I mean, not that it’s only you. Sherlock. All of it.”

 “You said he was asking for me, right?” Lestrade leaned against the wall, waiting to see if Dimmock would make his own call on the matter.

 Dimmock sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “He’s asking for John Watson. Not asking. Demanding. Rambling.  He confessed about the Richard Brook business being a lie. He said he’d confess because of John Watson. He kept going on about _loving_ him enough to _kill_ him. I think he’s out of his mind, you know, even if what he says is true about Moriarty being real, and clever enough to fool the lot of us, and the rest of the world besides. You can see the transcript, but it’s just…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.  “I don’t know if any of it would be conclusive evidence, it’s so incoherent. I guess it’ll be up to the jury, though, and out of our hands. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to take you down for a moment, though. Maybe if you can get John Watson down here for a statement…” He walked with Lestrade to the solitary cell, and entered the key to open the pressurized door. “Jesus Christ.” he whispered, fumbling for his radio.

Lestrade pushed into the cell after him, and stopped in his tracks.  Sebastian Moran’s nude body sprawled out before him, eyes and tongue bulging, ragged strips of prison issue clothing knotted about his throat.

\--

 John spent more than he could afford on a small box of handmade, fancy chocolates wrapped in gold leaf and an elaborate bouquet of sunflowers and other exotic blooms he didn’t know the name of. Resentment twisted his gut as he entered the familiar florist shop. The red roses went untouched. The shop girl smiled at him compassionately, regarding the sweets and bright flowers, and he was horrified. _She thinks I’m moving on. I don’t even know her name, but I’ve seen her every week, and she always looked so sad for me. She thinks I’ve found someone, and that’s why I’m not buying the roses._ It was silly, he knew, but he was ashamed that a stranger would think that he’d be so callous to abandon a grave he’d lovingly tended for so long. He considered saying something, but what was there to say? It was all such a mess, there would be no explaining, not that she’d believe that the cheerful flowers were for the most insufferable man he’d ever met.

 Twenty minutes later, he was at St. Bart’s. Mycroft was asleep, and John watched him, thinking how rare it must be for anyone to see him so vulnerable. He placed the flowers and chocolates on the night stand, and turned as he felt Mycroft’s eyes on him.

 “Good morning, John.” He attempted to sit up, but John knew that was hopeless in his condition, and from his angle.

 “Let me.” John offered, adjusting the hospital bed and sliding his hands under Mycroft to shift him. Mycroft tensed, and John made a soothing noise, one that had become second nature to him around the wounded. “Shh, I’m a doctor, remember?”

“Of course.” Mycroft replied. John saw him regard the gifts with actual appreciation. “Thank you.”

 “I came to thank you, actually. You were… brave. And kind.”

 “I appreciate the thanks.” Mycroft shifted, not used to gratitude. “But I do not regret my actions, John. I have told you, haven’t I, to think of me as a brother.”

 John blushed, a bit about his ears. “Even with Sherlock alive?”

“Especially.” Mycroft  replied, and John’s blush deepened.  “You are a vital part of him, John. Which is why I must ask you to grant me a favor which would put my mind at ease.”

 John looked up, questioningly.

 “John, go back to Baker Street. He needs you.” Mycroft sighed.

 John crossed his arms. “And where was he when I needed him?”

 “He was ensuring your safety. He was losing sleep over _you_ losing sleep. He was in hospital, cut open and drugged, crying out for you in his sleep.”

 John looked away, not willing to betray the knot in his throat or the tears he felt swelling, which were warring with his anger.

 “He was clawing at his arm, and muttering under his breath that his precious John would be ashamed if he knew his weakness.” Mycroft spat. “In his greatest misery and terror, I would remind him that _John_ was _safe_ , and he would bite his lip and go on suffering. My baby brother. My dearest treasure, my only family. I have lied to you, and caused you suffering, and would have died gladly if his _John_ would be _safe_.”

“I can’t do this right now, Mycroft.” John snapped.

 “You must do it soon. Before the public knows that he’s returned, before the accusations begin. He is weak, John. You are his strength. You are his savior.”

 “Stop saying that. I’m just a man. He’s an adult, capable of making his own decisions, no matter if you think of him as a baby or not.” John began to pace.

 “Did you ever consider what may have happened if Sherlock had never met you? Moriarty would have gotten to him first. My brother would have been infatuated by his cleverness. He would have corrupted him, so that he wouldn’t care about the lives at stake. Sherlock would see them as pawns, numbers, an equation. He and Moriarty would have fed on each other, schemes growing more and more inhuman and deadly, until one day I would be called on to kill him, or order his death, and I wouldn’t have the strength. I would have given it all to my baby brother, turned traitor and died for love of him. You, John Watson, are the man who stopped it. You made my brother a good man.”

“He was always good.” John spat, although something lurking at the back of his head knew it was at least partially a lie. “You don’t know that that would have happened.”

 “I saw Moriarty’s path, and I saw my brother in him.”

 “Don’t. Don’t you dare say that about Sherlock. Sherlock is a good man.” John was trembling. “A hero. A good man.” John’s left hand flailed in frustration, and he hastily wiped his eyes.

 “Can you convince the world of that?” Mycroft asked, softly.

 “I don’t know.” He let out a shuddering breath.

“Will you try?”

 John clenched his fists, and stormed out of the room.


	28. Chapter 28

John figured that he must be out of practice, for he didn’t realize the extent of Mycroft’s subtle manipulation until well after he’d gotten home. He spent the next two days trying to sort his future out in his head.

 “You’re going back to him.” Harry repeated, flatly. “You’re crazy.”

 John cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, struggling with the zipper on his bag. He didn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m glad he’s back.” She continued, after the long pause between them.

 Her admission surprised John. He’d avoided talking to Harry about Sherlock as much as possible since that day, but it was inevitable that they should, sometimes, because of John’s inability to cope. “I didn’t think you’d be.” He managed, cautiously.

 There was a tired sigh from the end of the line. “Look, I understand. You fought Ella tooth and nail. You heard everyone tell you about the stages of grieving, you know, and you think that it’s bullshit because you loved him more than that; so some shrink can’t predict when you’ll ‘get over it’ because they don’t even fucking _know_ you. That’s how it was with me after mum died. So you just decided to twist the knife once a week so that you’d never get over it, because you were scared to death that one day you’d be okay with him not being alive anymore. I get it. That’s why I’m glad that he’s back, because I hated seeing you do that.”

 John froze, struck by the clarity and truth of his sister’s words. Sometimes it seemed as though she knew him better than he knew himself. Had he really wanted to suffer? Yes, he realized. For Sherlock. If he couldn’t have Sherlock in his life, he could at least sustain the memory as long as possible by grieving.

“…John? Are you okay? I mean, I didn’t mean to upset-“

“No, no, Harry. You’re right. I’ve been a twat. I’m sorry.” John sighed. “ Look, the bottom line is that I’m not okay without him, and he’s not okay without me. That’s why I need to go back.”

“I know.” Her voice was quiet, troubled. “Are you really sure about this?”

“I am. Will you do it?” John pursed his lips, fidgeting with the strap of his bag.

 “Yeah, of course I will, you did it for me, right? Just call me when you need me there, and good luck.”

\---

 Sherlock chewed thoughtfully on one of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits. As the prodigal son, she was spoiling him with Linzer tarts, which he knew were more time and effort consuming that the usual biscuits that made their way upstairs. He was enjoying it while it lasted.

 He spent the day unpacking the boxes that she had stacked in his room, mostly odds and ends from cases, and his lab equipment. Most of the flat was as it had been otherwise, although considerably cleaner than when he’d last seen it. The only absence was John’s possessions: few, but conspicuously missing. His favorite mug, his laptop, his clothing, the few medical books he referenced on a regular basis, his kit, his gun… it was a tiny fraction of the amount of things Sherlock owned, and yet their absence put a dent in the flat’s comforting atmosphere. He attempted to distract himself by texting Lestrade periodically, anxious to hear news of any kind. So much was still undetermined…

 Sherlock’s mind refocused as he heard a key rattling, twisting the lock of the front door. Footsteps. John’s. His body tensed. Maybe John had calmed down. Maybe he would stay. Maybe-

 “Sherlock.” John dropped the oversize military duffle bag at his feet, and crossed the room. A bag that size was a good sign…

 “John.” Sherlock looked down at John, pained by his haunted expression, the proliferation of gray hairs he’d caused. “I owe you a thousand apologies…” words failed him.

 “I spoke with Mrs. Hudson. I want to come back.”

 Sherlock felt a thrilling warmth fill his chest. “I want you to come back, too.”

  “We need to work some things out, first.” John said, quietly. He sat on the sofa, and motioned for Sherlock to sit beside him.

 “Anything.” Sherlock replied, a bit too quickly.

 “You didn’t trust me with your secret.” John cast a dark look across the space between them. “I was trained to withstand torture, you know. I would never betray you, no matter what. I don’t understand why you don’t trust me.” His voice was sad, and bitterer than it had been in the hospital. Sherlock sighed.

 “It had to be convincing. If they saw you mourning… of course they’d think that I’d tell _you_ everything, and only you, because that was my instinct. It wasn’t that I didn’t think you were equal to the task, John, far from it. But I needed time, and your grief was my best alibi. I had no idea that you’d be…”

 “You? You can see everything.” John choked. “Why couldn’t you see…”

 “I was so lonely.” Sherlock looked down. “All I wanted was to be with you. That’s still all I want.”

 “You warned Mary.”

 Sherlock nodded. “I didn’t anticipate her presence. I’m sorry I didn’t know sooner.”

 “She died because of me.”

 “What you are trying to say, then, is that she died because of _me_.” Sherlock almost snarled, but kept his tone level.

 “No. Yes. I don’t know.” John shook his head in frustration. “But you tried, at least.”

 “You were suffering. It seemed like… she helped.”

“I was thinking of a future with her, you know, trying to move on. It would have been a mess if you’d had come back later to find me with her…”

 “I would have let you go.” Sherlock replied, flatly.

 “You don’t even let me have a date in peace, Sherlock. You wouldn’t have. You didn’t think it through.”

 “Of course I did.” Sherlock snapped. “I would have let you go, if you would have been happy. That was the point of this. Your life is worth more than mine, a hundred times over. Your safety, your happiness-“

 “I was your partner, Sherlock. Am I still that much to you?” John met his eyes for the first time.

 Sherlock shuddered. “Yes. Of course, if you’ll have me.”

“Then we’re in this together, and I wouldn’t have been happy if you’d let yourself suffer. If you’d let yourself go.”

 “I am clean!” Sherlock stood, trembling. “Ask Mycroft, he knows, and God knows it wasn’t easy!”

“Shh, Sherlock, I know. I’m sorry. I’m not accusing… not at all. “John regretted his hasty words. “Come on now, sit.” Reluctantly, Sherlock agreed.

 “Sherlock… I prayed for a miracle. Let’s make this work.” John took hold of his hand, and Sherlock felt his pulse begin to race at the touch.

 “Miracle…” John’s fingers were threading his hair, and Sherlock leaned into the touch, noting how John’s eyes clouded over with worry as they felt the scars beneath the unkempt curls. It felt wonderful, and he didn’t want John to ever stop. John was close now, so that he could smell him, feel his warmth radiating from his skin. John’s fingers lowered to stroke his cheek, and suddenly, his lips closed over Sherlock’s, and Sherlock’s mind went blank. John was kissing him. He could taste John.

 “-Sherlock…” John sighed, and the way that he said his name made the blood pool between his legs. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think- there was only _John._

  “I thought you weren’t gay.” Sherlock managed, when he could function again. _Please, please, let me have this, John. I’ll be good._

 “I don’t know anymore. It doesn’t matter. You do. I think I’ve loved you for a long time, and I was too scared to admit it.” John’s hands, warm and firm, were on him, stroking his shoulders, the crook of his neck.  “You listen to me, Sherlock. I am nothing without you. I think of you, dream of you, constantly. It hurt like Hell, but I couldn’t stop. You already know that I would kill for you, and die for you. You are my best friend, and the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever, ever seen… that’s enough, isn’t it? Tell me that’s enough.”

 Sherlock, dazed, nodded. “John, you are… everything.” No words were adequate.

 “I need you to promise me, Sherlock, that this will be forever. I can’t do this if you leave me again. I’ll go with you. I’ll go mad if you leave again. Please. Tell me it’s forever. I need you to be here for the rest of my life.”

 “I will stay, John, or take you with me.” Sherlock closed his eyes, letting himself feel the full weight of his regret for hurting John, burning into his mind that he must never cause John such pain again.

“Promise me.” John’s tone was suddenly demanding; worried and miserable all at once. Sherlock opened his eyes. John was holding open a velvet box between them, containing two silver rings. “ _Promise_ me, Sherlock!”

 Sherlock felt as though the breath had been kicked out of his chest. “John… do we need a physical object to prove it?”

 “I need your word, and I want a visible reminder.” John thrust the box further into Sherlock’s lap.

 “You’ll regret this.” Sherlock’s eyes stayed on the gleaming metal. Plain band. White gold. Simple, yet expensive. Not an impulse buy, especially not by the likes of a man like John.

 “Try me.” John’s eyes narrowed, challenging.

 “It’s just that statistically , thirty-three percent of marriages end in divorce, with even the most stable relationships likely to last an estimate of eleven-point-four years-“

 “We aren’t most people. I’ve had time to think. I’ve had time to _know_ what it’s like to give you up, and I’ll never want that again. Don’t you want this?” John suddenly looked very small, dejected and defeated.

 “I do- very much, John.” Sherlock clapped his hands over John’s, trapping the box under their hands. “I’m just – frightened that-“ Sherlock’s phone beeped, but he ignored it. _Not now, Lestrade. Any other time, ever._

 “Don’t be.” The relief evident in John’s expression made him ache. _I’m not good enough for you, John Watson_.

  “You’ll want a woman-“

 “No woman is you.” John huffed. “I’m not a horny beast, Sherlock, I don’t _need_ a woman, especially not if I’ve got you. I want you, you know, I want to take you to my bed. I want you so much, and forever.” Every aspect of John’s physiognomy told Sherlock that it was the truth. “So promise me.” Fingers trembling slightly, John removed one of the rings and reached for Sherlock’s hand. “And if I’m still to your liking after tonight, we can make it official in the morning?”

 Sherlock felt himself smiling genuinely, for the first time in months. He offered his hand, and let John slide the ring onto his finger. John reverently kissed the ring once it was in place. Sherlock returned the gesture, sliding the ring into place on John’s hand, and kissing it as John had done.

 His phone beeped, and, annoyed, Sherlock pulled it from his pocket and buried it under a cushion.

 John laughed, that mad little giggle that made Sherlock so happy. “Oh, love… what I’ll do to you tonight…”

 Sherlock gave him a quizzical look. “Do you know much about what to do with the male gender in bed?”

 “Nope.” John replied. “But sex is sex, isn’t it, and we’ll figure it out.” John’s eyes were dark with lust, and he gazed at Sherlock as though he were taking him apart in his mind. It was intoxicating.

 There was a loud, insistent banging at the front door.

 “Ignore it.” Sherlock whispered.

 “Ignoring.” John agreed.                                       




“Sherlock, I know damn well you’re in there!” Lestrade’s agitation was audible, even through the door.  

“Ignoring.” Sherlock muttered.

 “Sherlock, dear, the door!” Mrs. Hudson’s quick footsteps clipped across the foyer and  he could hear her fumbling with the locks.

 John sighed, and Sherlock reluctantly released his hold on John. Lestrade was up the seventeen steps in several long strides.

 “This had better be important.” Sherlock spat.

 “Sebastian Moran’s dead.” Lestrade said, and let the words fall flat on the room.


	29. Chapter 29

  Sherlock frowned as he flicked through the photographs on Lestrade’s phone. “I can’t be sure unless you let me in to have a proper look.”  he grumbled.

 “You know I can’t do that.” Lestrade sighed. “I wasn’t even supposed to take these. I only did because-“

 “-Because that ceiling fixture isn’t sturdy enough to bear the weight of a man the size of Moran, I know.” Sherlock replied. “Consider your suspicions confirmed.”

 John startled. “Who on earth would do this? I mean, I suppose he’d have enemies other than us, but _after_ he’d been arrested? What would be the point of that?”

 “Maybe it was a backup plan, not to be taken alive.” Lestrade frowned. “Although, why confess first if that was the case?”

  John opened his mouth to speak, but found that he couldn’t quite articulate his thoughts. Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him, and then, back to Lestrade.

 “I wanted you to know everything, before it became public knowledge. You can’t act on it, not yet. We’ve got to clear your name first. I need for you and John to keep a low profile for now, and just… be safe. If there’s someone out there who had it in for Moran, it doesn’t necessarily make them a friend.”

 “Yes, mummy.” Sherlock snarled. “John, fix us some tea. We’re under house arrest.”

 John nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen.

 “He won’t let you talk to him like that forever, you know.” Lestrade gestured after him.

 “What do you mean? I always talk to John in the same manner.” Sherlock leaned back into his chair and drummed his fingers, still in a huff.

 Lestrade tapped the ring on his finger. “I mean, the honeymoon only lasts so long. When did this happen?

“Eighteen minutes ago. We haven’t started the ‘honeymoon’ yet. It’s … I believe the phrase is ‘an engagement.’ We haven’t acquired or signed the papers yet. Nor will we get to tomorrow, as planned, by the looks of things.”   




 “Does anyone else know? Mycroft?...” Lestrade asked, hesitantly.

 “No.” Sherlock sighed.

 “You’re not going to go through with a proper wedding, then?”

 “So that John can show up in a kilt with half of the army in tow, and we suffer through weeks of tabloid speculation?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

 Lestrade laughed. “Congratulations, then. You were made for each other.” Sherlock’s eyes warmed, but he outwardly scowled.

 “My brother hasn’t asked about you.” Sherlock changed the subject so quickly that Lestrade was unprepared for the comment, which felt like a slap to the face.

 “Yeah, thanks for telling me that, it makes me feel much better to know that he isn’t bothered.” he snapped.

 “I think that he should be.” Sherlock frowned. “Whatever you and my brother had was making him… better. So I think that you should see him again.”

 “He doesn’t want to see me, remember?” Lestrade crossed his arms.

 “He’s on a drip. He won’t get very far, enjoy that while it lasts.” Sherlock shrugged. “I think that he does want to see you. He’s just a stubborn ass.”

 “And you would know about that.” Lestrade earned a sharp glare from Sherlock, making him grin despite the grimness of the evening.

  John returned with a pot of tea and three mugs. “I don’t know how much you heard, when you came to get me from Moran, but I think I know why he confessed. He felt a sort of … kinship to me, I think. Because he had Moriarty, and I had Sherlock, and, well, there’s nothing quite like being the trusted friend of a mad genius. People don’t generally understand.” John filled the cups, mixing the sugar and milk to Sherlock’s liking before passing him his mug.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, but slowly nodded. “That was why you forgave me.” he realized. “Because you knew that I couldn’t help myself, going against Moriarty at all costs. You knew that I was my nature, didn’t you.”

 “That wasn’t the only reason, mind, but I get it, Sherlock. Moran was mad at the end, that’s for sure. I was a bit out of my head myself, but not as much as I could have been if… if I’d loved Moriarty, you know. I just can’t imagine what that must have been like. He must have thought that I could, though, he must have thought it was at least close enough.”

“Jesus.” Lestrade breathed. “He loved that madman? How is that even possible?”

 Sherlock smirked. “People might well ask that of John.”

 “No, Sherlock. You’re not like him, not in the ways that count. Decency.” Lestrade stood, and began to pace.  “Alright, I’m going back to the yard. I’ll be in touch, and John, keep him inside. It’s important.”

 John nodded, and saw him off. Sherlock was still draped across the sofa nursing his tea when he returned.

 “I’ve been told to keep you inside.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. John crossed the room and slid into place beside him. “Now, what to do to occupy you…” Sherlock barely had time to set down his mug before John was pulling him into his lap, kissing him lightly, and then deeply, and, maddeningly, lightly again. “Beautiful Sherlock.” He sighed. “Lovely, lovely thing you are…” John’s arm snaked about his waist, John’s hand under his robe, under his thin shirt, against his stomach.

  _Three Continents John Watson…_ yes, it made sense now, no one would be able to resist John. John Watson, with the world at his feet, begging for his touch.  Sherlock wanted to beg, but he was shivering too much to speak. What was he to do with his hands, with his lips, that Three Bloody Continents John Watson would be impressed with? Every touch of John’s set off a myriad of nerves. Experimentally, he touched his stomach with his own finger, and felt only the touch and pressure of his own fingertip on his skin. Why, then, did John’s touches set off nerves not only where he touched, but also across his body, reverberating in his toes, in his scalp?

 “Sherlock… shh, Sherlock… my god, you’re shaking.” John pulled back. “It’s all right, Sherlock, shh. If you’re not ready.”

 “I am.” Sherlock huffed. He reached for John again, and whimpered as John kissed up his throat, and along his ear, darting his tongue inside. Sherlock almost yelped- the sensation was better than a kiss, better than a massage… it shot straight through to his groin, and made him curl his toes. “John!” he hissed. “More, John, please, more, more…” He arched his back as John’s tongue laved his ear, pushing into the canal as far as something as large and clumsy as a tongue could- and yet, and yet, it was not enough, and too much, all at once.

 “You’re surprisingly easy to please.” John whispered. “Come upstairs, now, I want to see you in my bed.”

 Sherlock nodded, still dazed. John’s room was empty of his belongings, containing only the dresser and bed which were part and parcel of their flat. Mrs. Hudson had outfitted the bed with clean sheets, and Sherlock was disappointed that the space no longer held a trace of John’s scent.

 John pulled back the covers, and unceremoniously began to strip. The lean, hard muscles of military life were now comfortably overlain with a bit of civilian weight; sparse golden hair dusted his chest and became slightly thicker at his navel, thickest at the base of his straining red cock. Average length, Sherlock noted, but nicely thick, with a jutting vein on the underside…. Legs stout but strong, again, just a bit of gold hair, just enough. Not gangly and lean like his own, not at all. Scars, of course the left shoulder, a few minor marks scattered on forearms, knees, ankles. Lovely.  

 Sherlock raised his eyes to see John watching him in amusement. “You’re looking at me like you look at evidence.” He teased. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 “You are beautiful.” Sherlock stated, simply. “Perfect in every way, better than I had hoped.”

 John blushed. “I’m… enough, I suppose, but not half as much as you. Let me see you.” John pushed the robe from his shoulders, and Sherlock shrugged off his shirt, and allowed John to pull down his pajama bottoms. He bit his lip as John examined the exposed scars with his doctor’s hands, probing his leg, his chest, his shoulder…

 “Who hurt you, Sherlock?” John asked, quietly. “God help them if they’re still alive.”

 “I fell from a building.” Sherlock replied, and, at John’s sharp look, clarified, “a church roof. I was cocky, I misstepped, I fell. The one on my back was from an explosion. A piece of shrapnel hit me. It wasn’t as bad as it looks. Mycroft looked after me, I was never in as much danger as you imagine, not with him there…” Sherlock looked down. “I don’t like looking at my own body, anyway. It’s only transport. The scars don’t interfere with function, so just don’t look.”

 “I like looking, you silly git. You’ve got gorgeous transport, and I’m no stranger to scars. It’s just… when I see them, I hate that I wasn’t with you when you got them, watching your back.” John sighed. “Come here, love.” Sherlock followed John, under the covers, and eagerly tangled his legs with John’s as he was pulled into another deep kiss. Hesitantly, he placed his hand on John’s thigh, and inched it inwards. John’s fingers slipped between his legs, and Sherlock jumped in surprise at the unexpected sensation of John’s fingertips on the soft, oversensitive skin.

 “Sherlock… is this all right?” John mumbled against his chest.

 “Of course it is.” Sherlock answered, tersely.

 “Listen… I want you to know that I’ve been tested…”

“Of course you have, John.” Sherlock sighed.

“You weren’t going to ask?”

“No.” John Watson tested himself monthly, more than strictly necessary, Sherlock knew; since they’d met. Any questions would bring into focus his sex life with Mary, which Sherlock didn’t want to question. The last thing he needed was for John to think that he was implying that she wasn’t the picture of feminine cleanliness, and he didn’t want to sully their time together with a discussion of John’s dead girlfriend.

“You should always ask people, Sherlock…”

“There isn’t anyone else, now is there?” Sherlock answered, impatiently.

 “Sherlock… are you really a virgin?” John asked, pulling away enough to meet his eyes.

 “Yes. Why is that so unbelievable?” Sherlock snapped. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with that.”

 “No, there isn’t.” John agreed, and Sherlock could feel John’s cock twitch against his stomach, could hear the sudden spike of desire in John’s ragged voice, could see the naked want and wish to conquer in John’s eyes. He hadn’t expected a fetish. He didn’t feel up to fulfilling a grand expectation.

“I can see where this is leading, and yes, I’ve always used clean needles.” Sherlock added. “How do you ever manage to have sexual relations, John? Do you normally bring a clipboard and stethoscope to bed?”

 “I’ll stop.” John assured him.

 “Don’t stop what you’re doing right now.” Sherlock sighed.

 “I won’t… why do you keep shaking, love?”

 “I just don’t know where your hands will be next.” Sherlock answered, lamely. “I’m not used to it.”

 “We’ll go slow the first time, okay? Just hands?”

 Sherlock nodded. John, despite having no experience with a man, seemed to know what to do, one hand cupping his testicles, rubbing smooth circles into the skin, and one hand pulling at his cock, a tight squeeze at the base, twisting as he pulled, a flick of the thumb over the damp slit. Sherlock copied the movements, and was pleased to hear the small whimpers of gratitude muffled in John’s throat. Sherlock closed his eyes, and struggled to focus on his task as John bucked against his hands, as he felt his own orgasm building. There it began, as always, at the base of his spine, coiled, stretching out- his hips snapped forward as John’s touch became rougher. He had never touched himself in this way, and it was suddenly too much; if he were the one in control he would have slowed down, before building the pleasure up again. John didn’t stop. John squeezed tighter, pulled harder, and Sherlock felt his body thrash about without his consent, crying out and simultaneously struggling to get away from the source of overstimulation while thrusting into it. He felt a hot wetness in his hand- _John-_ but he wasn’t able to think beyond that. His own release came after, and when his head stopped spinning and his heart stopped thundering long enough for him to take several deep breaths, he was against John’s chest, and John was pressing feverish kisses into his damp hair.

  John mumbled his name again and again, and Sherlock raised his eyes to his, seeking approval. “My miracle.” John sighed. “Soon to be my husband.” This brought a huge smile to John’s face, and Sherlock found himself returning it.

 “Your virgin.” He added, pleased to have found something that made John want him so badly, and eager to use it to his advantage.

 “A bit less of one, now.” John teased. “Although we can redefine virginity… different acts and all?”

 “I won’t let you forget that you were the first.” Sherlock said, and was rewarded with a barely audible hitch of John’s breath. “And the last. “ John’s semen was still sticky in his hand, and, impulsively, Sherlock brought it up to show John, and slowly licked it from his palm. It was salty, and tasted slightly of chlorine, he thought, but not altogether repellant. He decided that his gamble was worth it when he saw how John’s face paled, and his eyes widened, pupils black and watery with desire.

 “You’ll be the death of me.” John whispered, and pulled him close. “Sweet miracle…”

 Sherlock sighed into John’s shoulder, and let himself be lulled to sleep by the warmth of John’s body, and the kisses pressed liberally into his hair and neck.


	30. Chapter 30

Mycroft was drifting into another wave of hazy sleep when Lestrade entered his room, looking grim. Even in his condition, Mycroft had been briefed by his PA a minimum of twice per day, more if necessary- so it was no surprise to him to see the former Detective Inspector arrive to consult him. That didn’t mean that it didn’t sting. He straightened his spine as much as he was able, attempting to look dignified.

 “You think that you’re more stubborn than me.” Lestrade began. “You’ve got a lot to learn. It took me almost a week to get in here, and now you’re going to hear me out. I’m not here to tell you about Sebastian Moran. You already know more about it than I do, from a bloody hospital bed. I’m here because Moran’s murder gave me an excuse to get past your door.”

 Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. He’d hoped that he would be allowed to keep the conversation official. Silence was the best strategy, he decided.

  “Look, I shouldn’t have said what I did to you. I’m still angry that you didn’t tell me about Sherlock, you know, but I didn’t mean what I said. The fact that you’re in hospital now is proof that you’re the most unselfish sort of man there is. You had me worried sick, and you wouldn’t let me in to even _see_ you- you can’t _do_ that to people. If you’d gone and died without giving me a chance to say I was sorry, well, that just isn’t fair.  I know I’ve lost my chance with you, but you should know not to do it to anyone else. It’ll make life easier for you.”  Lestrade sighed, and turned to leave the room.

 “Gregory.” Mycroft managed, awkwardly. Lestrade paused, and turned to face him.

“I’m… sorry.” Mycroft continued. There was a moment of silence… and then, Gregory Lestrade _laughed._   Mycroft scowled, feeling his internal defenses rising.

 “Don’t. Don’t be cross.” A smirk still lingered about the man’s face as he lowered himself into the chair beside Mycroft’s bed. He pulled Mycroft’s hand between his own, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t scare me like that again, Mycroft. Please. Don’t die. Not yet.”

 Mycroft looked into his dark, pleading eyes, and down again, feeling his ears redden. First Sherlock, and now this… for all of his political clout, he’d never felt so needed before. It had been years since he had mattered as person to another _person_ , and not merely to _people._ Not since Sherlock was a child. It made him feel alive.

Lestrade bent to kiss him, and he did not object.

\---

Sherlock had declined an escort from the Yard after he and John had given their extensive statements, scoffing that he had faced far worse than the paparazzi in his absence. Once in the cab, John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. “You don’t think the press already knows about you?” he asked, frowning in contemplation.

“Text from Mrs. Hudson.  Sam from the café had to beat back the crowd so that she could get into her flat.”

“Sherlock! “ John hissed. “If you knew that, then why didn’t you accept the escort?”

Sherlock sighed. “Must everything be an ordeal?”

“So says the man who staged an elaborate fake suicide.” John snapped.

  The crowd was thick around their doorstep. Sherlock ignored the flashes of cameras and the shouts of reporters, while John bristled under the assault. Two clerks from downstairs yelled over the din. The ginger one, who John knew by sight but not by name, held out a broomstick to clear their path. “You’re obstructing a place of business, you lot. Clear out!” he snarled.  John cast him a grateful look as he and Sherlock escaped into the safety of their home.

“I expect they will tire of it eventually.” Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it on its hook.

“Do you?” John returned grumpily, heading to the kitchen to start the kettle. Sherlock was sprawled across his chair when John finished making the tea. He placed the cups beside them.

 “This is a right mess. “ John grumbled. “It’s starting already, with those idiots outside. We’re lucky that neither of us has been charged with anything yet.  I’m sure that your little stunt counted as disturbing the peace, at the very least. Not to mention resisting arrest-“

“Charges dropped once I died.” Sherlock sipped his tea, looking bored with John’s rant.

 “And now that you aren’t dead?” John countered. “Greg hasn’t gotten his position back. Dimmock is hesitant to help us. Molly will probably get fired, and do you think that Bart’s will still give you alumni rights after the shit you pulled?  We’re going to have to fix this mess, Sherlock, or we won’t be able to take cases, we-“

 “I wanted to marry you today. I’m sorry that it wasn’t possible.”  Sherlock’s quiet interruption silenced John, freezing him in place.

 “You haven’t lost your touch.” John swallowed, steadying his nerves with a deep sip of tea.

 “You are pathetically easy to read. Don’t, John. Not to everyone. To me.” Sherlock stood, and settled into the sofa beside John.  John leaned his head on his shoulder, and sighed.

 “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” John replied. “But we do need to regroup. I think… I think we should start with the blog.”

 Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. “What are you going to write?”

 John frowned, gazing across the room at his laptop. “Let’s figure that out together.”


	31. Chapter 31

John frowned at the screen of his laptop, the blinking cursor mocking him. He reread what he had written and erased a large chunk of text that properly reflected his feelings, but felt too raw and personal to share with strangers. He’d written five versions of the text, and each met with scorn by Sherlock. His emotions were getting the better of him. He wanted to tell the world what it had felt like to grieve both Sherlock’s life, and his own, how he’d loved Sherlock so very, very much; and how miraculous it was to be given a second chance. He tapped away at his keyboard, revising until it began to sound like he was describing someone else’s life.

It’s been a long time since I updated this blog. I’d be surprised if anyone is still checking for updates. I’m sorry about that, at the time, it was too difficult to keep writing. Sherlock has returned. No, he was never dead; it was a trick to outwit three hit men Moriarty had set on myself and Sherlock’s other friends. No, I didn’t know that at the time, and the pain of not knowing was indescribable. This trick wasn’t meant to play with our emotions, it was a difficult time for Sherlock as well. Imagine having to give up your entire life and identity for so long, with everyone thinking that you were a fraud, or worse. Sherlock has a lot of pride, and to give that up was terrible for him, as well. 

 Sherlock was able to bring Moriarty’s network to justice with the help of ******* and is cooperating with the Metropolitan Police to settle the Moriarty business. I’m not allowed to give any details yet without the police releasing the information, but you will know more soon from official sources. Please do not believe anything that the tabloids speculate. Thank you to everyone who stood with me and with Sherlock in defense of the truth. 

 “What about this?” John asked, passing the laptop to Sherlock.

 “Awkward sounding rubbish.” Sherlock concluded. “But it will do. No word from Lestrade.”

 “It’s only been a few hours.” John chided him, tucking his head beneath Sherlock’s chin. “He may have knocked off for the night, even.  I’m sure the police won’t be shy calling us for further information.”

 “There are people camping outside of our flat with cameras while a fresh crime scene has been tampered with, and all I have to work from are photos from a mobile.” Sherlock snarled. “John, I can’t live like this. We have to get clearance to see the scene and do something _useful_.” A look of distaste crossed his features. “Call Mycroft.”

 “It’s late, Sherlock. Mycroft is working on helping us, I’m sure. Right now we need to focus on reaffirming your good reputation, and that starts with the blog and following police protocol until further notice. “

Sherlock huffed, but didn’t argue.  John sighed, and slipped his arm around Sherlock’s waist. “You’ll solve it anyway. You love a challenge.” John kept his voice soft, soothing Sherlock by rubbing circles into his back. “I can touch you now, isn’t that strange. So many months I wanted to touch you, and I thought I’d never have the chance.”

 Sherlock looked taken aback by the confession, but slowly, he nodded his head. “I used to watch you. Security cameras. I wanted to touch you too, drove me mad, I thought I’d break and go to you…”

“I’d have welcomed it.” John kissed his throat.  “But now… there’s nothing we can do but wait, and I can’t keep my mind off you.  Don’t make me wait until bedtime.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. “What did you have in mind?”

John felt his cheeks burn, despite having rehearsed the proposal in his head. “I want to suck you off. A good suck can be better than… than _anything_.”

Sherlock smirked down at him. “So, that’s your weakness, then?”

 “I’m not offering as a way of asking you to…”

“Aren’t you, though?” Sherlock chuckled.

 “Not right now. I just want to make you feel good. I’ve never been on the giving end, so. Well.” John undid Sherlock’s trousers, and gave a gentle tug on the fabric. “Lift up a moment.” Sherlock did, and John pressed a kiss into his inner thigh. Sherlock was half aroused, and getting more so by the second. John groaned at the sight. He loved sex, loved everything about it, the visuals, the smells, the tastes. Being with Sherlock was different than being with a woman, different than being with anyone. The musky scent between his legs was stronger than a woman’s, somehow, but still fresh; not at all like the smell John associated with close quarters shared with other men.  John trailed wet kisses up the left thigh, before nosing at the base of his cock, drawing back to kiss down the right thigh.

“Mine.” John sighed. “My virgin.”

“Will you always call me that?” Sherlock gasped, as John’s fingers traced the underside of his swelling erection.

“Yes.” John mused. “Because no one else has had you, and no one else will ever have you, Sherlock, because you’ve chosen me and now you are _mine_.” A small whimper emerged from deep in Sherlock’s throat, and John struggled to remember everything that had ever been done to him that had driven him mad, and doubted that he could reproduce half of it. He kissed up the inner thigh again, and pressed his tongue against the underside of his scrotum, licking a line forward, tasting the slightly musky, salty skin. Anticipation was key, he knew. He drew one of his testicles into his mouth and began to suck in a steady rhythm, sliding his hands under Sherlock’s bottom to knead in time. Sherlock was writhing, and John had barely touched him- the thought brought out his confidence. He let the flesh fall from his lips, and struggled to free his own straining erection. Sherlock’s eyes flitted downward, and John grinned up at him, meeting his eyes as he swirled his tongue over the slit, catching the tiny wet droplet at the edge.

 “Hold your hips still.” He commanded.  John sucked at the head, each suck gaining pressure until it was almost too much to bear, before decreasing the pressure just a bit more with each suck, then building it up again- oh, how he loved having that done to him- and from the tiny, muffled cries emitting form Sherlock, he wasn’t the only one. He eased off, then dipped his head forward experimentally, to see how much of Sherlock’s length he could take into his mouth. He pulled back swiftly as the head brushed the back of his throat, making him gag.

Sherlock made a tiny, despairing noise as John drew away to catch his breath, and unconsciously thrust forward. John gripped his hips tightly. “Still.” he gasped. Sherlock stilled, with discipline John wouldn’t have had himself. John began to flick his tongue just under the head, stroking the rest of the length with his fingers, until Sherlock tensed and he could feel the spurt of semen against his lips, dripping down his chin.

“John…” Sherlock whispered, reaching down to wipe away the liquid. John thrust his hand between his own legs, tugging roughly until he found his own release. _Sherlock,_ he thought dully, with each pull. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._ And then Sherlock had pulled him into his softening lap, and he was grinning madly up at him through his sore jaw, and everything was absolutely _fine_.

 “It _was_ better than anything, John.” Sherlock assured him, giving him a brief, tight squeeze.


	32. Chapter 32

 Mycroft was glad to be home, although home felt more like a hospital at the moment. Two nurses were on call, staying in the common areas of the household and monitored more closely than they could possibly imagine. While he was able to walk with some assistance, he usually resigned himself to a wheelchair- for now. It was certainly a step up from complete bed rest. His eyes flickered downward to his Blackberry, which displayed an email from a colleague awkwardly joking about his ‘down time’. Mycroft sighed. He’d done little but work since his return.

  A small light alerted him to the presence of his expected visitors. Tucking his phone inside of his jacket, he straightened his posture as much as he could tolerate as his PA opened the door to his office. Sherlock and John, both looking calmer than he’d seen them in weeks, entered. Sherlock sighed at the formality of the office, while John’s eyes flickered over him, the doctor in him assessing and cataloging his appearance and perceived improvements.

 “I believe I should offer my blessing and congratulations.” He began, noting the matching rings the pair now wore.  

 John took a step closer to Sherlock. “Not yet, but soon. As soon as possible.”  John eyed his brother with a mixture of determination, possessiveness, and adoration. His fingers slipped into Sherlock’s, and his brother allowed it, even closing lightly against John’s.  Mycroft was pleased; it wasn’t often that he and Sherlock agreed on what was best for him.

 “I need access to Moran’s case.” Sherlock blurted. “Please.” He added, with a slight blush, as John squeezed his fingers in a gentle reminder.

 “I’ve come up with a solution.” Mycroft replied. “A solution, brother dear, which has caused me much aggravation and has cost me the promise of extensive favors to those involved. I have arranged for you and John to be registered as members of the Counter Terrorism Command, on a conditional basis, until further notice. My conditions are that you _behave_ yourselves, report your progress to me, and don’t step on the toes of the roughly fifteen hundred officers and officials worldwide who achieved CTC status through the time honored and respected route of hard work, dedication, and taking unwarranted shit from their superiors.”

 John raised an eyebrow at the unexpected expletive, but Sherlock merely nodded.  “SO15 status lets us back into the police investigations, but I can’t imagine they’ll be happy about it.”

 “Do we have the right to operate in this case?  As far as the police are concerned, this is a domestic murder, isn’t it?” John frowned.

 “What else was Moriarty but a terrorist?” Mycroft asked, tersely. “This is being treated as an extension of that case. Prove yourselves, and get back into the good graces of the Metropolitan Police; and then your temporary credentials will no longer be needed.”

 “And Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, with a twitch of his lip that betrayed more concern than he’d like to show.

 “He doesn’t like to make a scene, which SO15 status would certainly do.I have offered it to him already, and my message goes unanswered; a conflict between his professional pride and his desire to be of use, I am sure. “ Annoyance flickered across his features briefly, before his eyes focused on his brother again. “ I’m afraid that the burden of restoring his reputation and position is entangled with the restoration of your own-so _do_ take this seriously.”

  “Understood.” John replied.  It made Mycroft feel reassured, somehow.

\---

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“Have you cleared my name yet? I’m still waiting for my tea.” Sherlock stretched his legs over the edge of the sofa, flexing his toes.

 “Can’t you get it yourself?” John sighed.

“Thinking.”

“Fine, all right. The blog’s a heap of rubbish at the moment, anyway.” Sherlock watched John go through the motions of tea making, muscle memory taking over as a slight frown hinted at his thoughts.

 “You’re upset.” Sherlock stated, taking his tea. “It’s not about the blog. It’s not about us. It’s the case.”

 “Nice deduction, yeah. Scoot over.”

 Sherlock pulled his legs to his chest and turned, leaning on John’s shoulder as he sat.

 “I know that we’ve got to do this, love, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to do the case. I don’t want to put away the person who killed the man that killed Mary. I wish I’d been that man myself.” John’s fingers tightened on his mug.

  Sherlock regarded him for a long moment before speaking.  “We’re tracking a killer, John. Don’t be swayed by emotions and sentiment.”

 “I should have known that you wouldn’t understand.” John snarled into his tea.

 “Don’t I? You do not want to bring justice to the man who killed someone you cared for. I do not want to do any favors for the man who kept me from you for so long, either. Whoever this is, John, it’s the last of the Moriarty case and if I do not track them down, they are likely to target you in order to get to me, and that is unacceptable. “

 “You’re right.” John sighed, looking glum and repentant. “Sherlock, I loved her, but I didn’t love her enough. That’s what hurts me. I let her down because it was always you for me, and nobody else. She didn’t even die for someone who loved her properly.”  John blinked away the first sign of tears, and swallowed a comforting gulp of tea. 

 “Did she love you properly, John?” Sherlock murmured.

 “Yes.” John mumbled, miserably.

 “Then logically, she would wish that I stop the one who would harm you.”

  John nodded, and buried his face in Sherlock’s dressing gown. “It was always only you for me, always… always will be…”

 Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around him, awkwardly waiting for his quiet sobs to subside.


	33. Chapter 33

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Wake up.”

 Sherlock snapped to attention. John never purposely woke him once he was sleeping, and the tone of his voice was tense. “What is it?”

 “Harry’s flat was vandalized. When she got in this morning, someone had broken in and taken a knife to all her furniture and the walls. She’s called the police, and I’m going to fetch her. She can’t stay there right now. I’m sorry, Sherlock, but she has to stay here, just for a little while-”

 “Give me a moment. I need to see it for myself.” Sherlock was up now, moving lightning fast.  In less than ten minutes, he was dressed as neatly as if he’d had an hour. “Come, John.”

 There were still a few reporters sulking about Baker Street, but John pushed past them impatiently, following Sherlock into a cab. Having given the address, he let out a shuddering sigh.

 “God, Sherlock. What if she’d been home? Why did this have to happen now, with everything else going on?” John was flexing the fingers of his left hand frantically, a sign to Sherlock that he was beginning to panic. Sherlock said nothing, but placed his hand over John’s, letting him grip it tightly.

  The officers at Harry’s flat gaped at the sight of Sherlock, turning awkwardly to one another to whisper. John let out a sigh of relief as he saw that Dimmock was among them, and making his way toward them.

 “It’s okay, I swear.” John said, offering him the documentation that Mycroft had provided them.

 “How the hell-ah, nevermind. This piece of paper’s saved us both a headache. Give me a minute with the others to explain, and you can go on through.”

 “John!” a voice called. Female. Familiar. Sherlock locked his eyes on Harry Watson, who was approaching them with wheeled suitcase in tow. She was almost John’s height, pale and ginger. She had soft curves and long hair haphazardly tied back, an image at odds with what Sherlock associated with the pushy voice he’d heard on John’s voice mail. Dark circles framed her eyes, and her entire body seemed tired, abused, and worn down from her lifestyle and addiction. Sherlock took in the physical details hungrily, seeing fleeting similarities in her appearance and mannerisms to the brother that he knew better than anyone else. Then John was hugging her close, a gesture that seemed so odd to him, considering what he had deduced of their relationship. She was gripping him in return. Fear, on both sides.

 Sherlock walked slowly around the flat, eying the slashed sofa and wall, the stab marks in the mattress, the shattered picture frames. His lips pressed into a frown.

 “What do you make of it, then?” Dimmock asked, peering over his shoulder.

 “Nothing was taken, only destroyed. Some of the valuables were left intact, forgotten. The damage was contained to areas of intimacy; the sofa, the bed, the clothing, and the photographs. Both photographs of her brother. “

 “You think this is part of the Moran business, then.” Dimmock didn’t frame it as a question, the dread and resignation in his voice indicating the headaches, present and future, that the case would bring.

 “We are taking Harriet to Baker Street.” Sherlock replied, crisply. “If you need her, you know the number.”

\---

 Mycroft was too comfortable to do much more than open his eyes when he awoke. The air was cool, and the bed was warm; there was no longer any need for IV tubes and monitors to be taped to his skin, and best of all, he was in the arms of a strikingly handsome man. 

 “Awake, are you?” Lestrade asked, shifting slightly.

 “Have you been awake long, Gregory?” Mycroft mumbled. The other man had insisted on a date the night before, which in Mycroft’s current condition meant staying in bed and watching a movie which he didn’t remember much of due to the amount of time they’d spent kissing and fondling each other;  not to mention the amount of painkillers still flooding Mycroft’s system. He assumed that Lestrade had gone home after he’d dozed off, and was pleasantly surprised to find him still in his bed.

 “About an hour. I used your shower. Do you need a bit of help getting up?”

 Mycroft frowned, and nodded. Lestrade carefully positioned an arm around him, and lifted him to his feet. Mycroft braced one hand against the wall, and took a few halting steps. “You can let go. I’m not crippled.”

 “Don’t be stubborn.” Scolded Lestrade, letting him go, but staying a step behind.

 “I’m fine from here.” Mycroft insisted, gripping the door of the bathroom.

 “Jesus. I spent half the night with my hand down your pants, and you’re worrying about me watching you have a piss.”

 “I’m worried about you trying to aim for me.” Mycroft grumbled, earning him a bark of laughter from his lover.

 ---

 Sherlock carried Harry’s suitcase up the second flight of stairs, and showed her in to the room where John used to sleep. “This should be adequate.” He stated.

 “So, you and John share now?” Harry asked, eying him up and down.

 “Yes. I must ask, confidentially, that you do your best to not upset him. He has been… emotional lately.”

 “You’re seriously going to blame _me_ for him ‘being emotional’? Listen to me, Sherlock, I am not the reason he’s nearly lost his mind, and you know it. Don’t give me that shit after your little stunt.”

 Sherlock blinked. “Merely a warning, considering the fact that you’ve stashed a bottle of booze, likely whiskey or vodka, in the base of your suitcase. Clearly you’ve been sober recently, as you’ve returned in date attire with no signs of having imbibed. The bottle is a safety blanket of sorts, there if you need it, though you hope that you won’t. Understandable, considering the upset you have just had. I am merely warning you against it, Harriet.”

 Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Spoken like an addict, Sherlock. You’ve got a stash as well. Where is it, then? Someplace that’s difficult for you to access, and someplace that would trigger guilt if you tried. That means that it’s probably in this very room, in a place where he won’t be arsed to look.” Harry threw open the closet doors, and stomped down on the floorboards, pausing to pry back a plank. “I’m not rooming with your junk.” She hissed, retrieving a small box, and hurling it at Sherlock. Sherlock caught it, hands shaking slightly.

 “The tea should be ready in a moment.” Sherlock deadpanned, exiting the room with all the grace he could muster. He took several deep breaths on the way to the kitchen, stopping in the bathroom on the way.  With a small grunt of determination, he flushed the small packet of powder, and wrapped the unused needles in a flannel before crushing them with his shoe. He shoved the lot back into the box, and binned the evidence behind John’s back.

 “This is okay, isn’t it, Sherlock?” John asked, turning to arrange the tea tray. “I would have asked you first if it wasn’t an emergency…”

 “It’s fine.” Sherlock responded.

 “What do you think of her?” John asked, slowly, as though he were afraid to know the answer.

 “She is quite a remarkable woman.” Sherlock answered. “And the second most beautiful I’ve met.”

  “Oh.” John’s lips pressed together in frustration. “You won’t even say her name.”

 “Hmm?”

“Go on, then. The first beautiful woman.” John sneered.

 “My mother, of course.”

“Sherlock… that’s… wow, I didn’t know that you had it in you.” John’s voice softened, and he pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m sorry, love.  Let me check on Harry, okay?”

Sherlock nodded absently, and steepled his fingers, drifting deeply into thought.


	34. Chapter 34

 John sat on the edge of his old single bed, watching his sister brush out her hair. “Harry, you don’t have to go to work tomorrow.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped out anyway.

 “I have to, John. I can’t just hide here forever, and if I don’t go in tomorrow, what about the next day? I’m finally getting somewhere with my life again, and I don’t want to screw it up.” Harry sighed, and perched beside her brother. “Look, it’ll be okay.”

  “Mycroft will be looking out for you, I suppose.”

  Harry laughed. “You used to think that was creepy.”

 “You’ll be safe.” John bit his lip, struggling to control the confusing storm of emotions clouding his mind.

“Hey, Johnny. Here.” Harry pulled him into a tight hug, which he found himself gratefully returning.  “We’ve been through worse.”

 John bristled at the reminder. “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

 “Then we won’t.  Hey, is that him?” Harry stilled, listening to the faint notes of Sherlock’s violin drifting into the small room from below. “It’s beautiful.”

 John smiled. “Yeah, it is, when he’s not murdering the thing. Do you hear how the song doesn’t really sound like a song, but if you listen for a few minutes, it repeats? I’m pretty sure that means that he’s going through different scenarios in his head.”

 Harry chuckled. “I’ve never seen you so far gone before, John. I never would have thought you’d wind up with someone like him. I still want to kill him, you know, for what he did, but then you look at him the way that you do, and I know that no one else could make you happy, not anymore.” She picked at a piece of lint on the bedspread and sighed. “He said that I shouldn’t upset you because you were overly emotional lately. Maybe I should apologize in advance, in case I do something again.”

 “I’m sure that whatever he really said to you was rude, so let’s have our apologies cancel each other out.” John leaned back against the pillows. “He’s right about that, I suppose. I’d lost him, lost my mind, and getting this second chance has made me a bit, well, clingy, I guess. That’s why I wanted to lock you up here, and keep you safe forever. I’d try to lock him up, too, if I could. It’s bollocks, of course, I can’t cage anyone up forever, and even if I could, no one would want to live like that. “

 Harry nodded. “John, I’m really sorry that I wasn’t there for you when it happened.” She pulled her knees to her chest, and sighed. “Look. There’s a bottle of gin in my suitcase. Sherlock knew about it and called me on it. I wasn’t going to touch it. I was packing, in a rush to leave, and I found it in my closet behind my shoes. I’d missed it when I did the clear out. I was panicking, so I threw it in the bag, just in case... I’m sorry.”

 John drew in his breath, sharply. “Did you really do a clear out like you said, or…”

 “I did. I know I’ve lied before about it, but I really, truly did. Would you … would you get rid of it for me?”

 “Yeah.”  John reached for her hand, and gripped it tight. “It means a lot to me that you’re trying so hard. I’m sorry that you got dragged into my mess, it’s just made it worse for you.”

They sat in silence, listening to the cascading notes of Sherlock’s violin.

  “I miss you.” Harry stared at the ceiling, drumming her fingers on her stomach. “I started missing you when you went to Afghanistan, and I was so fucked up by the time that you got back that I never got to properly tell you.”

 “I miss you, too.” John replied, swallowing around the tightness in his throat.

 “Do you remember how you used to come into my room at night after dad had been at it, and we’d talk?”

  “Yeah. Lights off, Morrisey albums, talking about what we’d do when we finally got to leave.”

 “How the hell am I nostalgic for that?”

 “I don’t know. I think I am, too.”  John admitted. “But we’ll be better from now on. I’ll call you more often.”

 “I won’t lie to you, and I’ll stop stealing your girlfriends.” Harry promised.

 “As long as you don’t steal my boyfriend. He said you were beautiful.” John smirked.

 “Liar. I guess you could call him pretty, but he isn’t my type.”  Harry laughed.

 “He’s bloody well gorgeous, and he’s mine.” John stood, and fluffed the pillow he’d been leaning  on. “I don’t know if I can get him to stop playing, but I can usually get him to at least play something nice so that you can sleep.”

 “It’s fine. I’ll set the clock, and text you when I get to the office.” She slipped under the covers, and pulled them up to her chin, watching as John retrieved the bottle from her bag with just the tiniest pang of regret.

 “I love you.” John said, as he flicked the light switch and closed the door. He was halfway down the stairs when he realized that it had been more years than he could be sure of since he’d last told her.

 


	35. Chapter 35

 Sherlock was agitated, despite his calm exterior. There was data missing, obviously. Harry had nothing to do with this, really; it was a swipe at John, and a clever one at that. _Why was it clever? Fill in the blanks. Clever, so clever you can’t see it even though you’ve **seen** it, of course you’ve seen it somewhere because they want you to see it. Think one link back, Harry; two; the photograph, three-_

 A muffled cry roused Sherlock from his thoughts. It sounded like a strangled sob. John had woken up from a nightmare. It wasn’t about Afghanistan, because those dreams ended with a gasp or an angry shout. _Ah_. Sherlock frowned. He considered picking up his violin, but that might wake Harry, and the last thing he wanted was to sit with her and John in the kitchen as she attempted to pry the details of John’s dream about Sherlock’s death from him.

 Sherlock heard the shower turn on, and a few minutes later John emerged in his dressing gown, hair damp and ruffled. Sherlock watched him through his eyelashes as he passed, going into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Chamomile tea, then, maybe with a touch of honey if the dream had been especially bad.  He knew that he should go to John, talk to him, reassure him- instead, he watched as John paused in the doorway, and gazed at him. John’s face was resigned, but troubled. _He’s evaluating me_ , Sherlock realized _. He’s thinking that taking me back was a bad decision._ _He’s right._

 The bedroom door shut behind him.  Sherlock sighed, submerging himself in his thoughts; only he couldn’t focus anymore. Sighing, he stood, and quietly entered the bedroom. John was on his side, facing the wall. Sherlock slipped into bed beside him, and draped an arm over him.

 “I’m okay, Sherlock.” John brushed his fingers against his palm. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 John rolled over to face him. “You don’t have to keep saying that, you know.”

 “I don’t know what else to say, and I mean it.” Sherlock answered.  “Tell me what you need to hear.”

 John grinned at him. “Nothing. Would you mind staying for a few minutes, though?”

Sherlock nodded, and John tucked his head against his shoulder. “You don’t have to be _here_ , you know. I just need your body here.”

 Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John chuckled. “I don’t mean it _that_ way. It’s just that having you nearby helps me afterward, and I don’t want to disturb you during a case-“

 “It can wait.” Sherlock tightened his grip around John’s waist.  “You need to be able to work on this case as well, and you don’t work well without an absurd amount of food and sleep.”

 “Forgive the merely mortal.  I’ll be fine, now that you’re with me.”

 “Do you regret it?” Sherlock ventured, after a long silence.

 “Hmm?”

 “Taking me back. Getting involved with me at all. Losing the nice life you had when I was gone.”

John sat up. “A ‘nice life’?  I swear to God, Sherlock, I _will_ punch you-“

 Sherlock held up his hands. “A _normal_ life, then.”

“I was miserable every goddamn second, except for when I was _almost_ miserable. I thought that I’d made that clear. I also thought that asking you to marry me was a clue the great detective would understand.”

“I want to make you happy, whatever it takes, because I will _not_ let you regret this and leave me.” Sherlock huffed.

“Sherlock…” John frowned, giving him a familiar , exasperated look. “I’m not going anywhere. I appreciate the fact that you feel guilty for what you did to me. I appreciate the fact that you’re trying , here. But you have to believe me when I say that I’d rather be with you, in this life, then anywhere else. Do you understand?”

 Sherlock was quiet.

“Listen… I’ll try to explain. I know you know how much you helped me after the war. Moran got that part right, you know. You did make me feel like a man again, made me feel useful. It’s a horrible thing, being broken and useless, you know? But then I had a purpose again, and it’s not just that. It’s that sometimes I think I’m not really a whole person. It’s like I feel as though… I’m an outline of a person, what a person should be. I only feel like a real person when something fills in the lines; when I have something to fight for, and in the army, I did. With you, I do.  I didn’t need anything else when I was with you, because _you_ became my commanding officer. You became my best friend and my family, and then you made me watch you die.” John swallowed, ignoring Sherlock’s slight wince. “And now, you’re still all of that, but you’re the wife and kids and suburban house and all of that nonsense I used to think that I wanted, but you’re better, because you’re Sherlock Holmes. I’d rather have you than anything else, and now I do. So I can either hate you and be miserable, or love you and be thankful. “

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, gripping it in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “You are a real person. You are the most genuine person in the world. I never meant to hurt you, and I never meant to cause you nightmares, and I understand that you fear a loss of control that I must adjust for.” Sherlock pressed his lips into John’s hair. “And you’ve changed your shampoo to one that is twelve cents cheaper and smells like liquid hand soap, which is both annoying and unnecessary. Use mine until you get another bottle.”

“I was with you until the end. What do you mean about a loss of control? I stopped seeing Ella for a reason, you know.” John tilted his head until he could look Sherlock in the eye.

 “You worry about losing our second chance, and the nightmares won’t stop until I prove to you, in any way possible, that I am not going to disappear. They will probably never stop entirely. I will do whatever I can to prove myself to the part of you that hasn’t forgiven me, and rightly so.”  Sherlock watched John’s eyes dart away for a split second, long enough for him to know that his theory was correct.

 “The nightmares aren’t so bad after awhile, I learned that from the war dreams. Or maybe they’re better because of you. My leg started aching when you’d gone, even though I knew it wasn’t really hurt, and now I don’t feel a thing, except after those dreams sometimes.”  John was subtly changing the subject, Sherlock noted, not willing to own up to the part of himself that he had detected.

  “Do you want me to take your name, after we’re married?” Sherlock asked, moving the topic to his own advantage. One look at John’s hopeful expression gave him the answer.

 “I couldn’t ask that of you, Sherlock. You’re practically famous, your name is part of your work and your reputation, and your family- well, at least you have a family. It’s just me and Harry-“

 “Perhaps, then, I will keep my name and take yours as well?” Sherlock suggested.  Taking John’s name would give John symbolic ownership of him, a tradition that he’d always thought of as manipulative and outdated, like much of the nonsense that went along with marriage ceremonies. He was pleased to have found a way to invert this manipulation, more pleased to see that it was working on John, his traditional soldier.

 “Sherlock Watson-Holmes.” John tested it, sounding pleased; “John and Sherlock Watson-Holmes, consulting detectives.” He grinned at that, an actual little smile of happiness, not one of grim humor. Much of the tension had left his body, and he leaned comfortably into Sherlock’s chest. “What’s wrong with my shampoo?” he asked, yawning.

 “I’m used to the other one.” Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair, now mostly dry, reflecting that it would likely reassure John on some level to smell of him for a week or two.

 “mm. Go to your Mind Palace, love.” John murmured, as he began to drift off.

“hmm.” Sherlock held him until his breathing became regular, and then stepped back inside of himself. _One link back, Harry; two; the photograph, three; yes, three, slash marks on the photograph and the linens in groups of three. Three, a number favored by occultists. Three, a prime number. Three, the Holy Trinity. Three, angle, triangle…a human ear has three semicircular canals .Three Mile Island. Three…_

 


	36. Chapter 36

“Sir.”

 There was something barely detectible in the tone of her voice that made Mycroft tear his attention from his keyboard. “What’s wrong?” he asked, abandoning pretense.

“The Moriarty file, sir. The _inner_ one. It’s gone, deleted.”

 Mycroft turned to his closed circuit screen, and entered his own password. “Have you requested the access codes for the past six hours?”

“Done, sir. I’ve also escalated protection on your brother.”

 “Keep this on a need to know basis.” He steepled his fingers, and frowned at the screen.

 “Sir… I think that Detective Inspector Lestrade needs to know.” She cautioned, placing a hand on his shoulder.

 “Not before the rest of the police do.” He stood carefully, as not to strain his healing wound.

“Not because of the police.” She frowned, crossing her arms, and looking away from him in that way she did when she truly disapproved; and Mycroft felt a small stab of guilt.

 “You’re right, my dear.” He conceded, with a sigh. He reached for his phone.

\--

“Sherlock, _sweetheart_.” John mumbled. “Oh, sweetheart, love, Sher-“

 Sherlock sighed. John’s mind had proven to be rather overactive after his nightmare, and the pleasant dreams were almost as loud- and just as disturbing when he was trying to _think_.  Sherlock resisted the urge to give his lover a sharp poke in the ribs.  A sudden pained sound emerged from John, rousing him from his grumpy musing.

“Sweetheart- sweetheart, no. Please, God, no. Please, _please_ , Sher-“ John jerked awake, breathing hard.

 “Nightmare.” Sherlock declared.

 “Yes.” John’s fingers found his wrist and gripped it tightly, enough for it to hurt. Sherlock let him.

 “You… were with me, and you faded into dust. Into nothing. Like I was losing my mind again. Losing it. Everything. ” John bit his bottom lip.

 “I’m sorry.” _I am terrible at this._

 “Don’t leave me again. I’ll go mad. I will.”

“John-“

 Suddenly, John’s lips crushed against his, roughly. “Need, you, Sherlock. Now. Please, I need to have you.” John’s hands scrambled across his body, tugging at his pajama bottoms.  “Let me put it in you. Let me. Show me you’re real.”

 Sherlock was at a loss for words, but gamely lifted his hips so that John could discard the offending garment.

 “I love you, you’re mine, and you won’t leave or be taken, ever, I’ll die first, I’ll kill.”  John rasped incoherently as he rutted against Sherlock’s thigh. Blindly, he reached over Sherlock and yanked open the bedside table, rummaging until he’d found the tube of lubricant. A slick finger pressed into Sherlock’s hole, and he flinched in surprise.  “Shh, Sherlock, shh, let me.”

 “Of course I’ll let you.”  He responded, dazed. A second finger slipped in, and prodded until it came to rest on his prostate, before John’s finger swirled over the bundle of nerves and _pressed_ , making his cock twitch.

 “You like that, Sherlock. My tight, sweet virgin.” John’s smile was a lusty leer, mingled with the madness of his nightmare fueled mind.

 “You have considerable skill, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock sighed, eyes sliding shut.

 “Let me fuck you, say you’re mine.”  Sherlock nodded, and spread his legs, wincing as he felt the tip of John’s cock brush the sensitive skin. One finger slipped out, and one stayed inside, stretching him, slowly, and then John was inside of him, his cock feeling  much thicker than it looked. Sherlock sucked in his breath as he adjusted to the pain. “Yours, John.” He hissed, remembering John’s request.

“God, yes. Mine.” John began to move, and it was terrible, painful, and wonderful all at once. Slowly, Sherlock became accustomed to the burn, and felt only the blunt tip hammering his prostate with every other stroke- John’s hips were moving in a clockwise motion, and he hit just below that glorious spot, then dead on, again and again. Sherlock clenched the sheets between his fingers. If he’d been doing this to himself, he would have backed off sooner, for the sensation was quickly becoming too much to process- pain/pleasure/John-

 John gripped his thighs tightly, raising his legs so that they rested on his shoulders, and fucked him harder, deeper. John’s fingertips would leave bruises. The thought brought Sherlock over the edge, and he came with a shout against John’s chest, and was able to glimpse the look of shock that crossed John’s features as his muscles clamped down on his cock. John regained his rhythm, pumping deeply and quickly, until Sherlock felt the odd sensation of hot semen filling him, and dripping down his thigh as John lowered his legs and his thrusts slowed, until he at last withdrew.

 “Sherlock…” The crazed need had left John’s eyes, and he looked at Sherlock with a soft expression. “Was that okay? I didn’t mean to be so rough. Was I-?”

 Sherlock’s lip twitched. “Amazing. Brilliant. Fantastic.” He responded, in an only half mocking manner.

“The dreams won’t stop.” John pulled him close, disregarding the mess between them, and mumbled into his hair. “I just had to have you. Had to know that you were here with me. I’m scared, Sherlock, I can’t do another death. I can’t. Not unless it’s my own.  I can’t be alone again.”

 “Shh.” Sherlock fought to suppress the guilt swelling in his chest. “I will do whatever it takes to show you my sincerity. I will stay. Fuck me, mark me, do as you must- I will gladly comply.”

 “Look, I was never a bad lover, and I don’t want to start now. If you didn’t enjoy-“

 “I never said that.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth. “Four of the ten marks left by your fingers should be turning dark by now, by morning the lighter ones will be evident. “

“God, I’m sorry-“

“Don’t be. It interests me.” Sherlock waved his hand, dismissively. “Your semen has dripped against my inner thigh , by perhaps ten centimeters. It is already drying, but I can feel some left inside of me, a slow trickle that will continue for several hours-“

“Do you want to get me hard again?” John huffed, and Sherlock chuckled.

 “If that arouses you, John, then feel free to examine me carefully, and  measure each distinct element of our encounter.”

 John kissed the soft skin of Sherlock’s pale throat, where the sound of his laughter echoed through. “I promise that I’ll be good to you, for the rest of my life. I promise.”

Sherlock’s laughter quieted, and he squeezed John with the leg that he’d lazily draped over him. “I promise as well. My life is yours from now on, John Watson.” _Please, let me keep my word. I want to be good to you, my poor, dearest, faithful  John. Forgive me._

 


	37. Chapter 37

  There were two ways of dealing effectively with stress, in Harry Watson’s opinion. One was to work single-mindedly until everyone else had gone home, and the cleaning staff start shooting dirty looks as they Hoover around you. The second way was far too tempting to consider. It was dark by the time she made her way down the steps to the tube, and she hadn’t replied to her brother’s last text.  John would be worried, and she’d have to hear a lecture-

  She was slipping her hand into her coat to fumble for her phone when she felt a rather large hand gripping her shoulder. Adrenaline shot through her small frame as she turned, shoving her would-be assailant back, using her low center of gravity to her advantage. She was about to run when she saw his face.  It was Sherlock Holmes.

 “Bastard!” she gasped.  “You can’t just-“

 He looked impressed, for a mere moment, as he pulled himself upright and straightened his coat.  “Apologies, Harriet. I had no idea you would be so startled.”

 She bit back a bitter laugh. “My flat’s been vandalized, I’m in a strange tube station after dark, and I am even shorter than my brother. I thought you were better at drawing conclusions?”

  An odd look passed over his eyes. “I know that these situations can be stressful for a woman-“

 “Don’t _even_ finish that sentence if you value your life.”

 “-but, I don’t think of you as an ordinary woman.”

 Harry narrowed her eyes.  “What am I, then?”

 “A Watson.” Sherlock answered, as though it were the most natural conclusion to come to. Harry sighed, and fished out her Oyster card.

 “Come on, then.”

 “We aren’t going to Baker Street. Not yet.” Sherlock tugged her sleeve, and walked toward the exit.

 “Well, we can’t go back to mine. It’s a crime scene.”

 Sherlock smirked. “That is precisely why we must go. I want to take a closer look.”

  Harry shuffled after him, not particularly liking the thought of him alone among her possessions- he would get in with or without her key, after all. He led her through the streets, cutting through an alley she didn’t much like the look of. They sat together on the tube, the only inhabitants of the car save for an unfortunate older woman, exhausted from her shift. The presence of a stranger was enough of an excuse to not make conversation, a fact that Harry was glad of, although the silence was almost as awkward.  Upon reaching her flat, she noticed that it was still blocked off with yellow tape, making her feel a bit as though she were trespassing in her own home as she fished out her key.

 “They never said when I could come back.” She mused.

 “Surely before John will let you.”  Sherlock answered, producing a small magnifier  from the folds of his coat.

  “Probably.” She answered, walking slowly around her flat as Sherlock scraped something from the windowsill.  “Careful, I want to keep my security deposit.”  She called, although she didn’t think it was realistically possible after a break in of this magnitude. Sherlock mumbled in response, and she made her way to her bedroom.  She had thought that she would pack a bit more clothing, but instead, she found herself eyeing her possessions longingly, setting a toppled lamp upright or sighing over a nick in her dresser. Something snapped beneath her foot. Pulling back a tangled blanket, she saw the edge of a gilded frame that held her wedding picture, which had been hidden in her bottom drawer for months.  Her shoe hadn’t been the first thing to damage it- the frame was skewed, as though it had been thrown, and a jagged rip sliced across her face and Clara’s dress. Lovely little Clara gazed blissfully back at her with those wide, dark eyes, unaware of the violence visited on her portrait.

  Something well restrained snapped inside of her, and her eyes brimmed with angry tears. How dare they? Whoever they were, how _dare_ they take this from her?  A cry of frustration escaped her as she stomped her foot, futilely.

 “Why did you leave her?” Sherlock asked, looming behind her. His tone was quiet and curious, not at all what she expected. She’d thought, in retrospect, that he would presume to tell her why she’d done it, which is perhaps why she answered honestly.

 “Because she deserved better.”  Her voice sounded hollow. It was somehow a cop out, and the whole story at once. She was thankful when Sherlock merely nodded.

 “I… understand.”

 “I need a drink.” Harry wrapped the battered frame in a nightshirt and placed in carefully back in the drawer.  “I’m not joking. I’m going to the pub.”

 “You can’t. I promised John-“

“Oh, FUCK John!” She roared. “Fuck John and fuck _you!_ I didn’t ask for any of this to happen to me! He’s not even my enemy! Real people don’t even have enemies, not the sort that break into your flat and smash every goddamned thing you’ve worked for-“

 Sherlock grappled her, holding her in something halfway between a restraint and a hug.  Harry sobbed in anger, some part of her thinking that it would be some small justice if she ruined his ridiculously expensive shirt.  “I’m going to the pub.”

 “You won’t stop at one.” Sherlock chided.

 “ _You_ have no right to lecture me.” She sniffed.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t.  But I know that I wouldn’t stop at one.”

 Harry took a shaking breath and pulled away.  She stumbled into her bathroom, and washed her face with the coldest water she could coax from the tap. “Lager doesn’t count. It’s not hard.” She countered. “Two pints maximum, to settle my nerves. I deserve it. You can take me. Better yet, you’re buying.”

 Sherlock hesitated. “Two pints between us, then. To settle your nerves, but with food. “ he compromised.

 “Deal.” Harry agreed, most of the fight taken out of her. John would not know, this was assumed and unspoken between them.

  She didn’t take anything from the flat after all, and locked the door behind them with a horrible feeling of detachment and emptiness.  She let Sherlock lead them, and climbed into the cab he hailed. She didn’t know where they were going. She didn’t want to know. She hoped that it wouldn’t be anywhere she would see someone she knew.

 It wasn’t a pub, exactly. The place was small and dark, and they had lager and sandwiches, but it was almost deserted.  The hollow burning in her middle only wanted a drink, but she reluctantly ordered a beef pie, knowing that she was capable of swallowing comfort food in any circumstances.

 “I’m not eating alone like a cow.” She pushed the menu toward Sherlock.

 “I’ll have the chips then.”

 “That’s all?”

 “I don’t like to eat during a case. It slows me down.”  

 “Maybe you ought to slow down a bit. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you without that scarf and coat.”

 Their drinks came, and Harry tried to seem indifferent as she took her first sip. She could feel Sherlock’s eyes on her. She wasn’t sure which was stronger, the guilt or the pleasure. She drained half her glass before setting to work on her pie.

 “Harriet-“

 “You call me ‘Harriet’ because you know I don’t like it, and you don’t like me.”

 Sherlock pursed his lips. “Would you prefer ‘Harry’?”

 “John would, too.”

 Sherlock nodded.  He ate a few of the chips on his plate, and nudged his pint across the table. “I intend to make him as happy as I can.”

  “I like to think that you can.” She sighed.  

  “You don’t like me, either.” Sherlock countered.

“Have you really given me a reason to?”  she quipped. “We’ve both hurt him more than he deserves, but I’m his family.”

 “I want to be his family. He wants it, too.” 

 “He’s crazy.” Harry proclaimed. “Still… can we start over, somehow?”

Sherlock nodded, looking surprised that that was an option. Harry finished the last of Sherlock’s pint, and stared down the empty glass in regret. She barely felt intoxicated, and worse, she wanted more.

 “Take a few more bites and get the taste out of your mouth.” He suggested.

 “It won’t help. Are these really proper pint glasses? They seem a bit small, don’t they?”

 Sherlock tucked a few bills beneath his plate. “It just made it worse, didn’t it.”

 “I don’t know. I want it and I don’t.”

 “I know.”

 “I can walk it off.  And thank you for dinner.”  She added.

 “Just dinner.” He agreed, as they stepped into the chill of the evening air.

 

  


	38. Chapter 38

Lestrade frowned at his computer screen, displaying an email letting him know that his case had been resolved and that he was expected to report for duty in his former capacity Monday morning. To his knowledge, things were far from being resolved. Sherlock's case had not even cleared, which was the precursor to his own. This meant that someone had pulled some strings, and it could only be one person.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived at Mycroft's home. A servant let him in (the first time he'd seen one of the invisible help, he realized), and he entered Mycroft's office after a tap on the door frame.

"Hello, Gregory." Mycroft murmured, barely looking up from his screen.

"Hey." Lestrade sat on the edge of the massive desk, peering across it. "I guess I came to thank you, but also, you know, to say that people will talk, you know. At work. They'll wonder why I was cleared without all the red tape."

"You can tell them it is because your department is so efficient." quipped Mycroft, raising his eyes. "Welcome back, Detective Inspector." At this he actually smiled, and Lestrade laughed.

"What about Sherlock?" he asked, leaning across the desk, resting his chin on his shoulder.

"Temporary credentials until the Moran business is cleared. You don't think I'd let him back into the Metropolitan Police's good graces before you were back in a position to control him, do you?"

"Control is a matter of opinion. Still... it means a lot to me, you know. "

Mycroft's eyes warmed for a moment, but he showed no outward pleasure. Lestrade stood, and walked behind the desk, placing his hands on Mycroft's shoulders. "How are you feeling?" he asked, although it was clear that Mycroft was sore, uncomfortable, and grumpy.

"Much better, although the... recommended 'meals' leave something to be desired." He glanced down at his phone, and up to Lestrade. "Emma's birthday is next Saturday."

Lestrade frowned. "My Emma, you mean?'

"Yes. My PA can take care of it, if you wish."

"Wait. Why does your PA know my daughter's birthday?" Lestrade reached for the phone, which Mycroft snatched away in annoyance.

"Because I watch your daughters. Obviously."

"I don't know if I should be flattered. I mean... I should. You've got people watching them?"

"Of course. They are important to you, so they are important to me."

Lestrade smiled broadly. "I'd like for you to meet them, someday. Face to face, a proper introduction."

Mycroft looked uncertain. "I doubt they'd take kindly to me."

"Why not?" Lestrade challenged.

"Few people do."

"Shut up." Lestrade smirked, and pressed a kiss to his temple.

\-----

Harry was exhausted, and her left shoe was rubbing at her heel; and so she was glad when Sherlock hailed a cab for them. "Thanks for tonight." she leaned back into the seat, happy that the tension between herself and Sherlock had considerably dissolved- it was one less problem that she had to think about.

"Not at all." Sherlock replied, absently. He stared out the window, absorbed in thought. Suddenly, he startled, and sniffed the air. "Harry. Hold your breath."

She had begun to smell it, too- something medicinal and acidic. She leaned forward, peering past the divide, and yelped. "There's no one there!" There was something, but it was just the shape of a person, barely visible in the dark. The sudden outburst made her dizzy.

"Harry!" Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders, as she pulled at the lock and door handle. Jumping from a moving car wasn't a smart idea, she knew, but she was running out of options. She jumped, pulling her limbs close to her, and cried out in pain as she landed. Thankfully, it was the last thing she remembered before losing consciousness.

\-----

John raced to the hospital as soon as he got the call. Sherlock and Harry, both admitted. There was an accident, they'd said- the cabbie drove straight into a shop, they'd said. Cabbie not found, may have been drunk, police still at the scene-

It was absolutely _infuriating_ that he wasn't allowed in the room yet. He paced the length of the hall and back. They were checking for damage, they'd said. Nothing fatal. John repeated the words in his head, but knew that he couldn't trust anything until he'd seen them himself. He watched the clock until it turned to nine before rushing back to the desk. The tired looking nurse allowed him to follow her down the corridor. "Your sister is asleep, your partner is awake." she advised.

John nodded, startling at the thought that Sherlock, or Mycroft, had thought to have him listed as family before he'd gotten the nerve to even propose to Sherlock. He pushed it from his mind, however, upon seeing Sherlock, bruised and crossly sitting up in bed.

"Oh, Sherlock." John clasped his hand, and looked him over. He was intermittently covered in bandages, but didn't seem to be badly hurt.

"I turned my ankle. Harry may have broken her wrist." Sherlock answered. "Someone tried to kill us tonight. Someone who was able to drive a car remotely." He coughed. "And my lungs are sore." he complained.

"God, Sherlock." John gripped him tightly, trying to avoid his bruises as he kissed his curls fiercely. "God help whoever it is." he growled.


End file.
